


Terroir

by shadow13



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Ensemble Cast, F/M, God I've never had to tag so many characters, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Romance, Wine Country AU, Yeah bet you weren't expecting that tag, i mean this as a very sincere tag because in our current climate that could be triggering to some, police militarization vs community policing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: "Terroir - the characteristic taste and flavor imparted to a wine by the environment in which it is produced."It's almost the tourist season in the wine country, and Greenwood Cellars is gearing up for its busiest time of year. The new Blue Mountain Public House threatens to disrupt decades of tradition - this is wine country, after all.Aragorn is running for County Sheriff on a platform of community policing - but he's running against his boss.Eowyn feels trapped in the family business, and thinks the handsome young motorcycle cop is her ticket out.And Gandalf is selling his fireworks, like he always has, even though there's no way they should be legal.The story of a town, and the people who want to make it better, and what happens in one tourist season.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In 2014, I got to work in a winery for about nine months, and if it wasn't perfect, it was absolutely glorious. This fic is takes a great deal of inspiration from where I worked and the geography of this particular part of wine country. If it sounds like I know a lot about wine, I REALLY don't. I know really specific things about really specific types in this one specific area.

The directions for Greenwood Cellars were as follows: at the only stop light in town, turn west. The road should be followed as it rose and dipped over the climbing hills, each slope falling away into a sea of green lines, vines carefully trained over miles of wires, half the valley spread below like jewels on a swath of emerald velvet. Just left of the municipal park, there was the drive for the cellar. It wasn’t paved, instead lined with gravel, which had to be re-rocked every season, as cars made the twisting climb up to the top of the hill, where the old winery stood in command of the high vista, as proud and intractable as the family that founded it. There was a lower patio, and also a terrace, which was accessed by yet more climbing, though this time it was only stairs, and it was covered with a large, vinyl awning to offer some shade in the heat of the summer. The terrace afforded views of the mountains on clear days, and views of the other local vineyards on each rising, sprawling hill at all other times. Adirondack chairs and café tables were arranged for guests, and the vines were tantalizingly close, giving the space a private and idyllic air. Music piped gently over speakers strung into the corners.

Even on making it to the parking lot, the grade was steep from there to the front door, and today Sam was puffing for breath, struggling as he carried each heavy flower basket from the delivery van to the patio. Legolas caught the large basket before it slipped from the young man’s sweaty grasp. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Legolas. Heavens, but it’s hot work.”

Legolas had only told Sam to drop the “mister” about a thousand times, so today he didn’t bother to mention it. “Can I help you carry up the rest, Sam?”

“No need, that’s the last of them.” He was already putting them on top of the empty barrels that lined the patio. Petunias spilled over the edges in a calliope of colors: this one purple and dotted with white, like it was a nebula in the heavens; this one a rich magenta edged in cream; others that were eggplant colored, fading to a butter yellow at their centers; some delightfully pink, some lemon, and some even absolute black.

Legolas sighed with wonder at their variety, stroking one of the velvety soft petals. “Bilbo’s certainly outdone himself this year.”

“That he has, Mr. Leg- er, Legolas. But, uh…” He went silent, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket after having mopped his brow.

He raised an eyebrow at him. “But?”

“Well, I don’t like to toot my own horn too loud, but…Well. I designed some of these baskets here. Mr. Bilbo just approved them.”

“Sam!” he smiled warmly at him. “You’re going to be manager yet.”

“Well…” he blushed a little.

“Who’s here?” Legolas could hear his father calling through the open tasting room door.

He ducked his head in. “Sam, ada, from the garden center.”

“Ah.” Sam wanted very much to take this moment to _run_ back to his delivery van; Legolas was nice enough, but Greenwood’s proprietor absolutely scared the pants off of him. “Tell him to wait a moment.” Too late now…

Legolas delivered this instruction, and Sam stood there, back to sweating. “I-I know the colors are a little bit….well, more, from last year’s order, but I thought-”

Thranduil himself appeared on the patio in a moment, holding a bottle of white wine. It was chilled, too, condensation already collecting around the neck. “This is for your boss,” he said perfunctorily, handing it over to Sam, who almost dropped it. “With my compliments.”

“Y-yes, sir, I-!”

“Do us a favor and flip the sign on your way down the hill. It’s close enough to opening.” He gave no notice of this year’s flower order, he did not say either hello or goodbye to Samwise, and instead went back inside to finish the morning’s setup.

Sam sighed, but it was half with relief. “Are you getting a lot of visitors already, then?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head. “Not a lot, no. It’s still early in the season.” He leaned against one of the barrels. “They’ll come, when school is out.”

“Sure.” Sam switched the bottle between his hands, so he could wipe the condensation off against his trousers. “Did you hear about that new pub that’s opening up down the road from the shop!”

The other made a face. “It’s all anyone in town can talk about.”

Sam was smart enough to pick up on his friend’s lack of enthusiasm. “Well, Merry and Pippin were excited enough about it…”

“I don’t know why; they’re happy with Pabst, what would they do with craft beer?” This bitterness was not leastwise caused by the fact he’d never been able to help his friends develop a refined enough palette for his family’s product… “Besides – this is _wine_ country.” He tucked his yellow hair behind his ear. “It’s just a fad, it always is. Like that tapas restaurant two years ago.”

“I suppose…” Sam’s face fell – he was still deeply mourning that tapas place.

“I’d better finish opening,” Legolas smiled, and Sam almost dropped the bottle as he realized how much he was delaying.

“Cheese and crackers, I’ll be late on my deliveries. What will Mr. Bilbo say- well- bye!” He nearly tripped as he ran back to the delivery van, “Bagend Garden Center” framed in delicate vinyl lettering on the side. Legolas waved as he drove off, disappearing into the cool dark of the tasting room.

His father was finishing for him, eyes steely and calculating. “Tauriel is late again.”

Legolas paused on the threshold. “She is not, you’re opening early.”

“It’s ten after.”

“She’s probably clocking in right now.”

“That’s still late.”

He was about to snap that he didn’t want to have this argument again, that Tauriel was a good worker and she deserved a chance – but he was saved that by a flash of red hair running into the door from the back office. “I’m here!” She was hastily putting on her name badge. “There was a hay truck going practically five miles an hour, it was terrible.” She plucked a strand of hay from her hair as if in proof, and Legolas smiled at his father. After all, the only road into town was one lane, and even he couldn’t argue with that. Hay trucks were a known hazard this time of year. “I had to take the back way through the housing development. Well, anyway,” she beamed. “Any special sale offers I should know about today?”

It was a very boring day, too. They had all of four customers: a retired couple, and two foreign tourists. The sales were small. Tauriel spent most of the day telling him about this guy she was seeing: how funny he was, how sweet, how much she thought she could like him. Legolas listened no more than politely, but really, it just put him into a bad mood. When they were closing for the evening, Tauriel said, “Dead, wasn’t it?”

“It’s barely May.” He was feeling particularly testy about that.

“That doesn’t change the fa-”

“It’s going to pick up.” He was snappier than he should have been. “When school is out, the summer season – it always has.”

“Okay.” Her voice was small at that, and Legolas kicked himself.

“Look….I’ll finish. You go on home.”

“But I was already la-”

“There’s not enough work for two.” He tried to smile at her. “Don’t worry about it.” Tauriel didn’t argue twice. Legolas finished pumping the bottles; he got the pourers and the few used glasses into the industrial washer; he put away the signs and gave the new flowers one more drink. The tasting room was quiet once more.

He went to the back office, up the stairs and to his father’s door. “We’re finished for the day, ada.” Thranduil didn’t answer, holding his chin with one hand and eyes boring into the computer screen. “Ada?” There was a grunted reply, Legolas entered the office and finally noticed the opened mail sitting on the desk. The top paper had an all-too-familiar logo in the corner – _Dol Guldur Industries_. Legolas felt his blood going cold. “Another offer letter?”

Thranduil at last seemed to wake up, eyes going from the screen, to the letter Legolas just barely touched, to his son. “Throw it in the recycling, if you like.” For some reason, he was loathe to even pick it up. “Legolas.” His eyes snapped up to meet his father’s gaze. There was a faint smile on his face. “You don’t have to worry, little leaf. No one is selling the family winery.” He tried to relax as his father rose, shutting down the machine for the evening and stretching his arms over his head. “He just has to send those every quarter to keep up appearances, I’m sure.”

Grandpa Oropher had established this place, after all, and while Legolas had never met him, being here felt like he knew his grandfather in spite of that. Knew all the vines he planted, all the knowledge passed to his son, and to his son’s son, the care that could only come from one who communed with the land. Dol Guldur saw Greenwood as an asset to be bought and sold. Legolas knew it for its blood.

“Things will pick up after the next club shipment,” Legolas said, apropos of nothing. He wasn’t even sure if he was convincing his father, or himself. “With the summer season – we’re still the biggest tourist draw in town.”

Thranduil smiled again and motioned toward the door. “Let’s lock up for the night, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else remember when tapas was “a thing,” or is that a hallucination from a decade ago only I still have?  
> I’ve also been Tauriel, where there was one specific job from hell where – nearly every exceedingly long commute – something would go wrong that was beyond my control and I’d be late. Didn’t stay in that job long, and frankly, thank God.


	2. Wine Country Tours

There were times when Éowyn pulled herself into the saddle, that her mind instantly worked, so that she was not mounting up in the yard at Meduseld, but rather, it was always the tri-county rodeo, and she and Windfola were waiting in the chute. It was always sixty seconds before the best two minutes of her life – when the chute opened and Windfola whipped through, and they hugged the barrels around and around the curves, leaning almost horizontal, rider and horse one being. And back over the line like a rocket, a grey blur of horse and girl, as the time was repeated in an astounded voice over the loudspeaker - “ _Sixteen-point-six-oh, ladies and gentlemen, for Éowyn Eorling and Windfola_ -” The pot was hers, it’s hers, and she was on her way to the competitive circuit-!

But that never lasted long, not even sixteen-point-six seconds. Today it was interrupted by her brother coming around on Firefoot. “Do you want to go in front or shall I?”

Éowyn was awake, and she was in the yard at Meduseld – and Windfola had lost all her edges. “I’ll take the front.”

Éomer smiled at her. “You’ll have to do all the talking, then.”

She didn’t smile back. “I don’t mind talking.”

It was the first large group of the season, so both she and Éomer were needed to keep eyes on all horses and riders. The horses should be alright, so used to this path as they were. Well, Stybba might get into trouble, he’d been known to go off the trail if he felt like it and knew his rider would do nothing to stop him. But Éomer had put a girl who’d taken lessons onto him, so that would probably be alright. And as long as today’s riders weren’t trying to kick too hard, or yank on the reins…This was negative thinking, she knew that, but it felt like these days she could never stop it. The only moments where she felt at peace again were on trail rides, all alone, just her and Windfola – but the peace could give way to tears if she thought too hard for any amount of time.

Her uncle had sat with her one evening, taking her hands, and for a while they were quiet, until he asked her if maybe she wouldn’t like to see a doctor; if she knew she hadn’t smiled for weeks; if she knew it was like she was a shadow of the Éowyn he knew before. It had been something of a fight, but it ended in tears and hugs, not in anger. There was nothing a doctor was going to do for her, and what did he want, for her to be numb on top of everything else? How could he expect her to smile after everything that happened?

Éowyn knew she wasn’t being fair. If anyone should be allowed to suffer so intensely, it ought to be her uncle, losing his son as he had. And Éowyn knew, too, that she was being selfish. It was just that she could no longer help it.

After the accident, Théoden had forbidden any more rodeo competitions for the entire family. It was too great a risk, he’d said. And at first Éowyn hadn’t argued – there was talk all horse sports would be dropped from the rodeo next year anyway, after what happened to Théodred – but the longer that commandment lingered on her, the worse it settled on her mind. It wasn’t _fair_! For one hour she was queen of the world, everything was happening for her. Sixty minutes later, a hidden rock in the arena turned her cousin’s horse, horse and rider tumbled, and Théodred’s neck snapped under the weight of he and his mount. A freak accident, one of the horrible machinations of the universe. And she should be more upset about losing her cousin, she _was_ more upset about that – but to lose everything she’d ever dreamed of in one stroke, too? How was she to be expected to smile?

Éomer took things well where she didn’t. This was a good life, as far as he was concerned – a family business was a kind of freedom, no bosses like so many had, no wage slavery. They built something real out here. And to be in the wine country, working with horses, well, it was like God’s own country. He never felt boxed in, not like she did. He didn’t care if he didn’t travel for the circuits, he didn’t need to prove himself in competition, because he was Éomer Eorling, and he was already respected by everyone in town. Neither he nor her uncle were ever going to know what it was like to be a daughter in the country, whether the country grew grapes or not. They _could not_ make her smile.

* * *

“We’re coming up to the Greenwood Cellars property here!” She called out over the throng of twenty riders and horses, projecting her voice as waves of warm air washed over the vines. “This is the biggest family-owned operation in the area, and is a three time Winery of the Year winner.” Murmurs of appreciation rippled through the tour group. It wasn’t a bad racket, to be fair: Meduseld got to take eager tourists through picturesque vineyards; the tour participants got tasting cards for the wineries; and the wineries got them buying, if their luck held out. The relationship worked.

“Greenwood was founded,” she continued, taking the riders down the roadside path, “by Oropher Doria-”

She didn’t get to finish. Some jackass in a hotrod went flying down the narrow roadway, twenty miles over the speed limit at least, she could swear she saw him catch air over the last hill. He swerved toward the tour group, too, not over the asphalt onto the path, but just enough to spook one of the horses and make him rear. Éomer drove Firefoot forward from the back, catching the poor horse’s bridle and bringing him calmly down. The rider looked white as a sheet.

The car wasn’t the only thing flying, however – a motorcycle cop was in hot pursuit, lights flashing. Unlike the car, the bike hugged the earth smoothly, and it was almost as beautiful an image as she’d been on Windfola. Éowyn’s breath caught in her throat. She half didn’t expect the driver to stop, but he did; Aragorn had that effect on people, even if they were strangers. She felt herself relaxing.

“We’re going to wait a moment for this to clear out,” Éomer took charge for her, soothing the startled group. She was far too distracted. “Greenwood grows three different varietals of Pinot noir, and they source grapes across the area, including Pinot gris and blanc, and Chardonnay-”

The hot rod drove on again, much slower this time with a brand new ticket. Aragorn probably would have let him go with a warning, she knew, if he hadn’t purposefully spooked the horses. He was like that, he ticketed the assholes and was lenient as he could be for those who made a dumb mistake. He’d let her go last fall, when she’d accidentally blown a stop sign, crying as she had been…

She nudged Windfola toward him, where he was quickly writing notes in a pad for paperwork later. “My hero.” She smiled down at him from her horse, tilting her hat back. She hoped it gave him a better look at her face – and that he liked it. Windfola butted her nose against his chest, and he caught her lightly in his hands, stroking down between her eyes. Windfola was always a good judge of character, as far as Éowyn was concerned.

He looked up at her now, leaning against the parked bike, and nodded politely. “Miss Eorling.”

“‘Deputy Elessar,’” she mimicked his serious tone. “You can call me Éowyn, you know.”

“Not on duty I can’t.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to come see me off duty.” Windfola shifted beneath her, dancing lightly, and he just chuckled.

“É!” Éomer was calling for her, the group now being guided safely across the road.

She smiled again – two smiles in as many minutes, a recent record. “See you later.”

“See you.”

Éowyn nudged Windfola into a brisk trot and took her place at the head of the tour, more animated than she'd been for the whole ride up till now. She pointed out local landmarks, houses, geographical features, and noticed her brother on his chestnut horse, pausing to talk to the deputy as well. She saw them both laugh, but then Éomer caught up at the tail.

She asked him about it later, when the tour was dispatched and they curried the horses, nudging her shoulder against his. “What did you stop to talk to Aragorn about?”

“Aren't we nosy? I didn't pry while you made eyes at him.” He ducked when she threw a rag at him, and Stybba nickered low to say he did not appreciate this, ahem, horseplay. “Relax,” her brother laughed. “I just told him a bunch of us were going to that pub opening tomorrow night, and wanted to know if he was going.”

She stood a little taller, grabbing a pick to clean the horse's hooves. “Did he say he was going?”

“Said he might do.”

“Oh, really...” Éowyn's smile was secretive, but it was there.

“You're a flirt,” Éomer told her, removing the last of the knot's from the horse's mane.

But Éowyn wasn't listening to him. She was imagining herself, as she often did, on the back of that bike, her arms wrapped around Aragorn's strong torso. Flying on that would be like flying on Windfola in the barrel races, slipping low against the tight curves, chasing the lengths of limits. Aragorn was noble, Argorn was gentlemanly, Aragorn was well-traveled from his military days – and it didn't hurt he was handsome to boot. If anyone was going to understand her desire to break free, if anyone was going to get her out of this town, it was going to be him.


	3. Blue Mountain Public House

The soft opening was for local business owners and guests, to encourage good will with the neighbors. Tomorrow there would be a lunch spot just for media (mostly bloggers and the local paper), and, provided there were no accidents, the full opening would be that night. That was how Frodo got in, through his uncle, and his special, hand-signed invitation. “Why does he refer to you as ‘our good burglar?’” he’d asked when he first went over the postcard.

Uncle Bilbo answered without answering, as he so frequently did, mixing a concoction of neem oil in the sprayer. “An old college nickname, my boy.”

“But why burglar?”

“If you have time to ask prying questions,” he handed off the sprayer, “you have time to go treat the nursery stock. Off with you!”

Frodo thought it was very nice that his uncle’s old college friends were setting up a gastro pub in town, for he spent too much time by himself. Oh, there was the garden center, yes, and sometimes he’d have an aperitif with the Gaffer while they reminisced on the early days of the shop; or he would visit Gandalf outside of town, and the two would sit out under the stars smoking; but otherwise, it was really just he and Frodo, and any of the cousins that dropped by, and Sam, sometimes. His uncle was well-liked in town, but eccentric. It was difficult for Frodo to name more than one of his friends, whereas he could easily rattle off an entire list for himself.

But tonight he had used that to his advantage. “Look, it says right here on the invitation, ‘For Business Representatives and One Guest.’ Sam and I both work for Bagend, we’re business representatives!” His uncle just sighed, for he knew exactly where this argument was leading. “Therefore, it’s only fair to bring Merry as a guest.”

“I very much doubt that was the spirit of the wording.”

“Well…perhaps you could ‘burgle’ another invitation.” Bilbo had relented to bringing cousin Meriadoc on the condition Frodo drop the whole ‘burglar’ nonsense. But that only got Merry in, so for Pip, he turned to Legolas. “Please?” he’d begged, using his best puppy dog eyes. “It isn’t fair if Pippin is left out while Merry goes.”

“So bring Pippin instead of Merry!” Legolas was not interested in this argument, and he wasn’t going to fall for the big eyes, ignoring both young friends by stacking this week’s shipment of cases.

“But that isn’t fair to Merry, either!”

“I’m not going to that stupid opening! Ask someone else, ask Boromir, the Sheriff’s office got invitations, too.”

“Boromir’s bringing his brother.” Pippin lay on his back on one of the cases, looking up at Legolas pleadingly. “Please, Legs? Please?”

And that was how Legolas came to be at the new gastro pub he was completely uninterested in, dragged by Pippin, who was declaring him the “best friend ever!” Legolas greatly doubted the sincerity of this, since someone else would be Pippin’s new best friend as soon as free food and drink was on offer.

It wasn’t a bad place. The ceilings were vaulted, with exposed beams, which he rather liked, grudgingly. Other fixtures were too industrial for his taste: anodized aluminum capping the bar top, done with a rainbow, multi-chrome effect; iron cage light fixtures, which did nothing to diffuse the light, so one ended up staring directly at an exposed bulb; some sections of the walls were lined with corrugated sheet metal – awful. He hated to think of the acoustics during a busy dining period.

But so far, with only a relatively small number of guests, nothing was too echoing. Legolas allowed himself to be pulled to one side of the bar, where Frodo stood with his uncle. “I think it’s a great location, Gloin!” Bilbo was saying; Legolas gathered this Gloin person must be the owner. “It will be good to have so many of the old gang back together again.”

“Yes,” Merry leaned on the bar with his elbow, cradling his chin in his palm. “And what did this ‘gang,’ get up to, cousin Bilbo?” Bilbo shot Frodo a look, and for his part, Frodo was struggling to hide his smile and avert his eyes; clearly he’d been telling tales out of school.

“Almost like old times again,” Gloin agreed, setting out a fresh tray of crudités. He hesitated slightly. “Thorin’s doing well.”

Bilbo sniffed while Legolas took up a celery stick. “I didn’t ask.”

“He’s really got himself back on track. Quit drinking, too!”

“How incredibly dull,” and he took a pointed sip of his lager. Pippin looked up at Legolas and mouthed, “divorced.”

Legolas jumped when a broad hand slapped him across the back. “Legsy! You’ve lowered your standards to drinking swill with us?” It was only Boromir, though even from him, he didn’t particularly appreciate the comment. The deputy indicated the young man beside him, a little more wiry than Boromir was. “You’ve met my brother, Faramir.”

“Our beer,” Gloin was doing his best to keep from bristling, “is not swill.”

“It will be to Legolas here,” Boromir grinned at him. “He cares only for the most refined of experiences, the kind one finds at Greenwood Cellars.” He winked at Pippin and stretched out with his elbows against the bar top. “Hello, Pip. Didn’t think you were coming – but I suppose I should have known you’ll take any occasion for a free meal.”

“It’s the only kind I’m likely to eat,” he sighed dramatically. “Since cousin Bilbo won’t hire me back for the summer.”

“After you dropped an entire case of ladybugs last July? No, thank you, I’ll stick to shop assistants with less slippery fingers, so my customers aren’t sent out of the store crawling with insects.”

“Oh, that was a riot,” Merry butted in with a grin.

“Are you looking for work?” Gloin sized him up. “Any bar experience?”

Pippin wriggled slightly. “Oh sure, lots.”

Sam scoffed into his drink. “Yeah, if the experience is drinking…”

“Let me see if we’ve filled all our openings, my lad Gimli would know.” He turned toward the back and shouted, “Hey, Gimli! Where are ya, slow-coach?”

A young man shuffled out, carrying an entire tray of freshly cleaned glasses like it was of no more notice to him than an empty box. His thick, red hair was tied into a knot behind his head, and he grunted at his father as he set the glasses down. “Slow-coach? Some of us are working, not just yaking.”

“That’s the owner’s prerogative, networking.” He indicated the bar guests. “This is my old friend Mr. Bilbo, you remember him; and his cousins here, and that’s Sam; that’s Boromir O’Gondor with the Sheriff’s Office, and his brother, with, uh-”

“Legal Aid,” Faramir said with a soft voice.

That didn’t seem to enlighten Gloin much. “As he says. And this is….” He turned blankly to Legolas, palm open.

“Legolas Thranduilion,” he replied, offering Gimli his hand. The other took it and shook – hard, like one of those insufferable men with something to prove.

“Young Pippin Took here is looking for a summer job,” Gloin continued on smoothly. “He’s got experience, are we still short?”

“We are,” Gimli agreed, blowing a stray lock of red hair out of his eyes. “Kili backed out all of a sudden. I’ll take anyone at this rate, experienced or not.”

“That’s good news for you, Pip,” Merry grinned at him, and Pippin aimed a kick at him – and still missed.

“You mustn’t be too friendly with Legolas here,” Boromir grinned, still leaning on the bar top. “He’s your competition, you know.” At the blank look Gimli gave him, he elaborated, “Greenwood Cellars. Poor Legolas,” he straightened, at last eyeing the beers on offer for the evening. “End of an era, isn’t it?”

“This is _not_ Greenwood’s competition,” he bristled. Boromir was doing just a little too good of a job needling him this evening. “No winery in the valley could be, and a pub certainly isn’t going to change that. This is wine country, after all, not….” He couldn’t think of a better word, “beer country. The tourists don’t come in for places like this.”

“Well, actually,” Gimli squared his hands against his hips, and the two locked eyes. “We were aiming to serve the locals, as it happens. It’s a steadier, more loyal clientele, isn’t it?”

“Even so.” This shouldn’t be a fight, he _knew_ this wasn’t a big deal and he should just let this go; for whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to do that. “Wine is what we’re known for, and Greenwood is what puts us on the map. And our wines aren’t served in bars like this.”

“Like this?” Gimli wasn’t exactly dropping the matter either. “Well, that’s lucky – Greenwood soaks up so much attention, we were going to keep our wine list to just the smaller places.” Gloin was looking at him like this was news. “In fact, I can safely promise you, Mr. Thranduilion, no bottles from Greenwood Cellars will _ever_ be sold in a place ‘like this.’”

It had gotten distressingly quiet. Pippin took this opportunity to ask for a refill on his IPA. Bilbo was giving Legolas a look that he could interpret all too well; it was a look that said, “Your father is going to murder you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.: Haha, remember bars? And hanging out with your friends? And eating appetizers together? And handshakes? –starts sobbing-


	4. Whiterider Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my friend Pharaoh-Ink loves Gandalf. LOVES Gandalf. She's quoted as saying, "I ship Frodo/Sam, Aragorn/Arwen, and Gandalf/Myself." So for funsies, I made her an elf-sona and amused our little group with some stories about her being lovestruck over our favorite grumpy wizard (if he's not your favorite grumpy wizard, you are provably wrong). When I started writing this, I wasn't sure I was going to end up posting it, so of course she had to be included. I decided to keep the chapter after all. If you don't like OCs, or if the thought of anyone romantic over Gandalf horrifies you, you can skip without missing much.

Gandalf was the strangest person in town. Bilbo could be considered eccentric, and Merry could begin to lecture on the random histories of local plants at the drop of a hat, but it was Gandalf, beyond question, who was truly _weird_.

He lived just beyond the downtown corridor, on a few acres of abandoned property that had, at one point, been a mobile home park, but had since thoroughly grown over. It could still be considered such, if Mr. Grey’s single mobile home was enough to constitute a park. Water, sewer, and power were maintained on the old lines, but everything else there had fallen apart or grown over with brambles and trees. Nor was there any garbage service, so Gandalf hauled his own to the municipal dump. It was a shabby old home, too, with peeling white paint and shutters that were half-falling off. When Frodo had been a child, all his friends were far too afraid to visit, not leastwise because Gandalf was a wizard and likely to put a curse on them.

But Frodo had never been afraid, because he had been inside with his uncle. If the old double-wide seemed shabby on the outside, it was a veritable palace within: real cherry-wood floors, granite counters, Persian carpets. There were mahogany bookshelves, a real wood fireplace, and even a soaking tub in the bathroom. It always seemed larger on the inside, too, somehow. And he thought the place matched Gandalf, a little gruff and old and scary on the outside, and within – well.

Among the greater mysteries surrounding the valley’s most abnormal resident were how on earth he made a living. Denethor liked to complain – loudly – that he was undoubtedly scamming the government and living off tax payer dollars. It was an argument with some merit, because certainly he could not get by on just the sale of his fireworks, impressive as they were. It was unlikely the old mobile home cost much, at least from outside appearances; and while on occasion he’d enjoy a good glass of wine or a good meal at a local restaurant, his habits were not extravagant.

There was one exception to this, however – his white stallion of a truck. That pickup was the envy of most every man in town. It could tow upwards of seven thousand pounds; its engine purred like a jungle cat, and roared when needed; its four-wheel-drive could get over any surface at any time of year. It was always sparkling clean (a miracle for a white car), its miles-per-gallon were frankly absurd, and it cost at least thirty thousand dollars if it cost a dime. On where he got it and how he afforded it, the old man was always mum, smiling mischievously to himself and smoking (though it would be worth noting, there was never a speck of ash in the cab). If this might have been a source of envy and covetousness, this was cooled by Gandalf’s generosity with the vehicle. Anyone who needed a tow got one. Anyone who needed bark hauled, or even rock, had it. And when a rare winter storm had blown through, and the city was not prepared to clear the roads, it was Gandalf who had personally sanded each and every single one. Not a cul-de-sac had been missed. He was allowed his eccentricities for that.

* * *

There were two seasons when Gandalf could be expected to be doing well at the Whiterider Fireworks stand, one block removed from the main drag. These were Yuletide and summer. He was there this evening, though the walk-up business was minute. In the full height of a wine country summer, families walking the picturesque downtown would stop and buy pop-its and sparklers for bored children; he sweet-talked boyfriends into sending flaming hearts into the sky for their lady loves. It all certainly seemed like it could hardly be legal. However, when Ted Sandyman had called in to complain _again_ , Aragorn dutifully went down to the stand and tried to talk to the old man, who merely rattled off every single applicable code under city, county, and even federal authority. No violations – he even had the statute numbers correct. Eventually, the Sheriff’s Office refused to take any more complaints about it. It was just another one of the old man’s eccentricities.

It was too early in the season for throngs of families to yet appear, so he was unbothered, sitting behind the wooden counter, a (distressingly nice) laptop propped on his knees. He was deep in thought, working on the computer as he was, when a young lady walked up. “Hello, Ms. Amatheil.” He didn't even look up, and the girl paused in her approach. “You aren't out all alone this evening, are you?” He at last tore his gaze away from the screen, and he smiled at her.

Amatheil smiled in return, pushing her glasses up her nose and coming to rest her elbows on the counter. “I'm waiting for Arwen. She's in the fabric store.”

“You're not with her? I thought you were an artist yourself.”

“Well,” she looked down at her hands, failing to restrain her blush. “I felt like getting the air. It's a nice night out.”

“So it is.” The old man stood, moving the laptop into a bag, and Amatheil startled slightly.

“I'm so sorry, I'm interrupting you!”

“No interruption at all,” he assured, getting out his pipe.

She hesitated. “Is that safe to do? At a fireworks stand?”

“Never been a problem yet.” He blew a ring of smoke, and she could have sworn it was in the shape of a heart – but more likely, that was her wayward imagination. Or smudged glasses.

Amatheil rested her cheek on her balled fist, and like this, both leaning on the counter, they were actually incredibly close. “Did you have a lot of sales today?”

“Oh yes, but mostly online,” he nodded toward the laptop. So that was the secret of how he did so well...

“I didn't think you could send fireworks through the mail?” Gandalf just smiled at her in response. “I-I don't suppose you've been to that new pub down the street? Everyone's going crazy for it.”

“I have,” he puffed at his pipe, “as a matter of fact. The owners are some old acquaintances of mine, went there with Bilbo for lunch just the other day.”

“O-Oh...” She hesitated. “Was it good?”

“Was,” he agreed with a nod, leaning his head up and looking at the gathering stars overhead.

“Good enough to go again?”

Gandalf looked back down at her, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile. “Amatheil,” he said to her, his voice low and soft. “Why did you _really_ come down to my stand today, hm?”

“I....” The young lady stammered, looked at him, looked away, looked back again- “Wanted to buy a packet of sparklers.”

The old man just laughed, reaching down for a package and laying them down on the wooden counter, next to her hand. “Free of charge, this time. Don't burn those hands of yours – an artist's hands are everything.” She thought he winked, but that was probably just an ember in his pipe catching the light.


	5. Bagend Garden Center

“Hello, Bagend Garden Center, Frodo speaking, how may I help you?”

“Hello, Frodo. It's Thorin.”

Frodo was rather glad the speaker on the other end of the phone had identified himself, for he would never have been able to guess. He had very few memories of the man who had, long ago in his childhood, been _Uncle_ Thorin. Of course, he had not been as close to Bilbo then, either, and the two were only dim recollections at family functions, where most of his attention had been focused on playing with his cousins and sneaking frosting off the cake. He remembered how striking the man had looked, with all that thick, long hair, and that at Yuletide he brought homemade presents for the children; a clockwork elephant once, or even a little train that actually ran on steam! For Thorin was a metal worker – an artisan, really, and the toys he made were the stuff of legends. Frodo actually thought he still had the elephant somewhere in the back of his closet...

“Oh, hello, Thorin.” He shifted the receiver to his shoulder, because in the present, he was not a child to be given clockwork elephants, and Thorin was no longer his uncle. He was at his job, and he'd rather get back to it, thank-you-very-much. “How can I help you today?”

“Is your uncle in?”

“Let me just go and check.” He was in, but Frodo knew better than to say so, and hit the hold button, grimacing to himself.

Sam noticed, returning to the register with a new stack of cardboard flats for carrying out seedlings. “What's wrong?” Frodo just indicated the phone and his friend's shoulders dropped. “Again?” Sam had gotten the first two calls.

“I'll go and get Bilbo...” he sighed, swinging around the check-out counter. “Watch the register for me.” His uncle was in the supply room, checking off inventory. “Bilbo?”

“What is it, Frodo,” he said, not looking away from his counting of merchandise, tongue pressed against his teeth. “I'm very busy at the moment.”

“There's a phone call for you.”

“Well then, take a message!”

“It's Thorin.” The clipboard he had been holding fell to the floor with a clatter, and Frodo winced. “Shall I patch it through to your office?”

“Halfway through counting out the fertilizers-” this was said to himself as he stooped, gathering up the clipboard and lost pen. “No, you shall not!” he straightened, at last looking at his young nephew. “I thought I made it exceptionally plain I had no desire to speak to him!”

Frodo took the board from him, because Bilbo was, at this point, gesturing angrily and uselessly with it, and he was rather afraid he was going to knock something off the shelves. “I guess he's just insistent.”

“Oh yes, he is,” Bilbo snorted. “He just _has_ to have it his own way, and oh, the tantrums he will throw if he can't get it! Well, I'm not about to indulge this _childish_ behavior of his-”

“Bilbo...”

“I'm not available. In fact, I'm not even in.”

Frodo sighed and nodded once. “Right...” Sam was waiting for him at the cash register, drumming his fingers against the counter, which Frodo knew was his nervous tick. The hold light on the phone was still flashing. Frodo just grimaced and took up the receiver as he came around the counter. “I'm sorry, Thorin, he's not available. Can I take a message?”

There was a long silence on the other end, and it was nearly to the point where Frodo would have assumed the caller wasn't there, when at last he said, “That's alright.” And then, “I'll call back....tomorrow.”

“I really don't know if-” But there was the click and tone of an empty line, and Frodo just sighed.

Sam leaned heavily against the counter. “That's the third time this week!”

“I know....” replied Frodo, stacking the new seedling boxes under the counter.

“What are we going to do, Frodo, we can't have him calling in every day! It's going to start interrupting customers!”

“I know,” he repeated, standing up again and pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was at this moment that Bilbo came bustling past the register, grumbling to himself. “Confound it all, where did I put that damnable clipboard!” Frodo realized he still had it, and offered it up. His uncle snatched it from his hands. “Halfway through counting the fertilizers- Frodo, what _are_ you doing with ordering? We have 10-10-10 coming out our ears, almost no 6-9-6 for the rose section-”

“I have more arriving on Tuesday.”

“And you, Samwise,” he turned a finger on Sam, who looked very dejected, but knew enough to know this wasn't personal. “All that standing water after irrigating the nursery stock, are we in a garden center or a mosquito-ridden swamp?”

“A garden center, Mr. Baggins, I'll do a better job brushing it into the drains. I'll do it right now.”

“And-” he was still wagging that finger at him. “You will stop giving me those big, pitying eyes right this moment.” Sam and Frodo shared a look. As Frodo was safely behind his uncle, he was able to poorly repress a smile; Sam had to stand emotionless as a statue. “I know exactly what you're thinking, 'Poor Mr. Baggins, isn't it sad he's divorced so long and his old love wants to win him back, how lonely must his nights be,' well I am here to tell you it is _not_ sad and I do not care even one whit!” He huffed and Sam nodded at him with military seriousness. “Where did I leave that damned clipboa- oh, I'm holding it. Next I'll lose my head...” He finally caught his breath, looking between Sam and Frodo before announcing, “Well, Samwise, is that water going to drain itself!”

“No, sir, right away.” Sam was off like a rocket to fetch the utility broom, and that left just Frodo with his uncle, and he was no longer able to stifle the giggles escaping him.

Bilbo leaned back against the counter with a very heavy sigh. “Frodo Baggins,” he said without teeth, “you stop that infernal giggling this instant.”

“Sorry, Uncle...” Frodo eventually schooled his face in seriousness. It wasn't hard, when he really looked at his uncle. “Bilbo-”

“I meant what I said,” he put the clipboard down on the counter. “I really don't care. Not even a smidgen.”

“Bilbo, I've seen you drunk off the Riesling Thranduil sent for your birthday, crying over your wedding photo album.”

“That only happened once!” He straightened the small display of gloves by the counter. “Or twice.”

“It's alright if you do care, that's all I mean by it.”

“Well, I don't. Frodo,” he looked at his nephew very seriously, in the voice that always made him listen intently. “I've always said it, addictions don't change you – they show you who a person really is. Now, maybe Thorin was sick, and I'm very happy for him if he's better. But some of what he did was simply unforgivable. And I won't be told I'm required to grant him a pardon after all this time.”

“No, of course not...” Frodo's voice was very understanding and tender.

“I have a very full and rich life. I have this shop. I have a fine young nephew I've been lucky enough to help grow to manhood – and a mess of other relations I can occasionally tolerate.” He waved his hand, “Well, excluding Merry, of course.”

“Bilbo!”

“The point is,” he continued, face serious once again, “I made a complete life for myself. I'm going to enjoy it. And Thorin does not get to come back into it just because he wants to.” Frodo nodded. “Well!” Bilbo clapped his hands together again, and was the jolly old man his nephew knew him to be. “Glad that's established. Heavens, but I'm starving to death. Let's close it down for lunch. Oh, where has Sam gotten to!”


	6. Deputy Elessar

The phone was ringing. With a grunt, Aragorn rolled over on the bed, grabbed blindly for it on the nightstand, and successfully fumbled with the screen to accept the call. “’lo?” He sat up, scrubbing at his face. “Oh, hi, Mamma. No, I’m awake.” He stood, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he pulled on a discarded pair of sweatpants. “No, I wasn’t out late. I went to bed early, actually.” He padded quietly in the hallway, murmuring answers to questions into the phone.

Then came the crucial question: “How’s the election going?”

“That’s…” This was a pointless line of inquiry; Gilraen would want the truth, and to comfort him over it. Aragorn didn’t feel like dragging out every insecurity for his mother to asses at eight o’clock in the morning on his day off. “Going great. Yes, really. Listen, Mom, let me call you back, I’m just sitting down to breakfast. Yes, okay, love you too. Uh huh. Bye.” He groaned, tilting his head back and feeling his neck crack. The election…It was going, alright – going to put him in an early grave. Boromir had said as much. Running for sheriff against one’s own boss was not the best way to win friends in the office. And Denethor had held the position for a _long_ time. Aragorn was fighting against complacency as much as anything else, against voters who checked a box because it was a familiar name, because it was the way things had always been. It was the entire point of his campaign, and it was like carrying water in a bucket full of holes…

He slipped back into the bedroom, dropping the phone onto the nightstand once more and climbing onto the mattress – where a slim pair of arms wrapped around him and pulled him down. “Went to bed early indeed….”

Arwen’s sexy alto voice…He smiled as he curled into her, mouth pressed against her neck, kisses idle and soft. “That wasn’t a lie. I didn’t say I fell asleep early.”

She ran her fingers through his dark hair, tugging slightly. It made him tilt his head up, smile positively dopey, eyelids heavy and looks adoring. “Did she say she was going to vote for you again?”

That made the smile falter. “Always does.” Maybe it wasn’t fair that he didn’t tell his mother _every_ insecurity, when Arwen had them so freely – or maybe it was natural, as two pieces of one whole. There was nothing he wouldn’t tell her, nothing he wouldn’t do for her- “Did I make a mistake?”

She sat up in the bed, still holding him. “You know I believe in you. I told you that when you decided to run.”

Even Arwen’s father had nodded appreciatively at this news, silent as he usually was, keeping his opinions to himself until asked for them (a trait Aragorn greatly appreciated about the man). “I’m going to run for sheriff,” he had told the Peredhels over the family dinner, and Celebrian had looked excitedly from the young couple to her husband, a knowing glint in her eyes. To make sheriff at his age would be quite an accomplishment – and it would surely make him worthy of Arwen at last. It wasn’t that Elrond had anything against him, man to man they respected and even liked each other; but neither was Elrond going to have his little girl be just another wife of just another cop; another statistic of abuse and a failed marriage; someone who stood by while her husband came home from another hard day of beating people over the head…

But it was not just for Arwen that he was running, not even chiefly for her, more a side benefit – it was all those other reasons. Denethor’s version of policing was to be “tough on crime,” which was inevitably tough on the most disenfranchised. His gang enforcement was brutal, and the local wineries loved that, since they didn’t want their image spoiled for the tourist season; he always put on pressure for maximum sentencing with the DA, and he wasn’t happy unless arrest statistics were climbing every quarter – always more, always harder.

It wasn’t why Aragorn had taken this job. He didn’t want to control people, he didn’t want to put up an illusion of safety that came at the cost of other people’s lives. His platform was one of community policing – less the Sheriff’s Office as a paramilitary force, and more as a civic partner. It was about ensuring resources went where they were most needed, that the population felt heard, and safe, and listened to; _that_ was what would reduce crime, not stringent arrests that did nothing except prove they were a department of bigotry, adhering to meaningless quotas that did nothing to actually make the county safer for its citizens.

He had a good shot, Elrond had even said so at the time. His military background was sterling, and he’d come out of the service with commendations and a couple small medals. He’d leveraged that into a good education in public administration. And he’d made good use of his years as a deputy, building relationships in the community and doing the job right.

But Denethor had two very important weapons on his side: complacency, and fear. These were blunt force instruments hard to beat.

Aragorn crumpled against his fiancée, with whom he was never afraid to feel small or weak. “If I lose this election….I don’t think I’ll stay.” It was a lot to lose – pension, benefits, the paycheck wasn’t anything to sneeze at either. “Denethor will make sure my career is on ice and anyway….how could I? How can I serve a community if I know they don’t actually care about justice?”

Arwen didn’t argue, she just continued to pet him. “What would you do instead?”

“I dunno…” he laughed a little against her skin. “Become a cowboy? Get work on one of the ranches out of town?”

“That could be sexy…” They fell back to the mattress together, laughing still, and Arwen stroked her hands down his back before cupping his face in her hands and turning him to her. “You’re going to win, Aragorn. And then, when you do, we’ll get married…” She let the promise linger between them, and it always made his eyes go soft and dreamy.

“We’ll get married…we’ll have a bunch of kids…”

“Let’s start with one and then we can discuss the matter.”

“And I’ll do anything you want. Get up early and bring you fresh squeezed grapefruit juice-”

“Speaking of.” She rolled him onto his back and sat above him. His hands ghosted over her bare stomach, her hips, her thighs… “I believe you told your mother you were about to sit down to breakfast? I’d hate for you to have lied to her.”  
“I can think of something else I'd rather snack on first...” He leaned up for a kiss and she pushed him back down, laughing.

“Your breath is terrible, and I'm starving. Brush your teeth and let's go out to eat.”

His eyes glittered as he looked up at her. “And after?”

Arwen flipped her long, black hair back over her shoulders, and smiled. “Well, who knows where the day will lead us. It's early yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Gilraen gets to be alive because single moms are great. “But why can’t Arathorn be alive, families getting to be together are also great?” For the angst. “Does that mean Celebrian is also effectively dead?” No, that’s too much angst.


	7. The Attorney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm on the west coast of the U.S., and while my area isn't in immediate fire danger (it's very close), we're socked in with smoke, enough that my hardass office is closed. I'm taking this moment to get out of dodge, but bringing the laptop with, so there will still be updates. But, if you feel like helping me not panic, drop your favorite Tolkien fic in the comments! Much appreciated.

It was just that family dinners were so terribly awkward.

Faramir’s memories of better dinners in better times were very dim, not like Boromir, who could still picture them clearly. But he had been so young when his mother got sick, so that if he thought now of childhood dinners, they were mostly:

Their mother, when she wasn’t in the hospital, so horribly thin and pale. “Eat, darling, mother’s alright. Oh no, I’m not hungry. But you’re still growing, so you have to eat up.”

Sandwiches from the hospital café, eaten on the window seat of their mother’s room, while the machines beeped and buzzed and her breath rattled.

Being dropped off with their uncle, and Faramir would play with the cousins a little after dinner, but Boromir would sit stoic, watching the news with Uncle Imrahil, letting everyone know how grown-up he was.

He felt worst for Boromir, who had grown up so quickly, old enough to know what was coming, what his little brother would need, and determined to fill the void. Even into the early days of high school, the dinners that were now just the three of them maintained an uneasy peace, because of Boromir, who said whatever anyone needed to hear, and kept the household balanced, and never acknowledged what they were lacking (except sometimes in private, except rarely with his brother). But after a while, the angst of two teenage sons and a father who couldn’t understand one of them, and would rather focus on the Sheriff’s Office, which he did understand (or thought he understood), meant that they just stopped eating together. It was catch-as-catch can. Sometimes Faramir came home from various afterschool clubs and teams and just ate cereal.

But now they were grown up, and they might finally be interesting to talk to, or maybe Denethor was just lonely. Faramir suspected he was. But now that he was back home again, freshly graduated from law school, Sunday family dinners were a regular staple of their lives.

And they were just so terribly awkward.

“How are we to stand it,” was today’s litany and lecture. “Boromir, you risk life and limb to take dangerous criminals off the street – and Faramir makes sure people can, what? Sue because their coffee was too hot?”

“Dad, let’s not start…”

Faramir swallowed down his pork roast (dry; his father wasn’t much of a cook, so why did they do this?). “Everyone’s entitled to equal treatment under the law, Dad.”

“Is that what you tell yourself, to help you sleep at night?” Denethor took another swig of his beer. “I would have been happy if you worked for the District Attorney. Hell, I would have been fine if you’d gone into corporate law, at least that earns a living. But no, _Legal Aid_. Getting society’s pushers and moochers out of their just desserts-”

“Dad-”

“Last week I got assigned a client who just wants to save her home while filing for bankruptcy. Her husband died, she has no family, where is she supposed to go if she loses her house. Is that one of society’s pushers and moochers?”

“Yes!” Denethor stabbed vigorously at the watery gloop that was his instant mashed potatoes. “No one is owed anything in this world. If she’d lived within her means-”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _I_ don’t- I’ve been elected as Sheriff of this county four times-”

“That makes you an expert on beating up desperate people in terrible situations, it does _not_ make you an expert on the law.”

Denethor leveled his fork at his youngest son, and it looked like a weapon in his hand. “You couldn’t do what your brother and I do for one day, not for one hour. You’re a soft, chicken-hearted-”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Boromir was on his feet, throwing his napkin onto the table. Faramir marveled that it wasn’t his plate… “Dad, it’s late, I have to be up early for an appointment. Let’s…” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Let’s just call it a night.”

They stood quietly, putting plates in the sink and scraping remnants into the garbage. Denethor walked them to the door, and hugged his eldest. “Night, Dad,” said Boromir. “Love you.”

Denethor patted his back; Faramir could see how wrinkled his father’s hands were becoming, spotted with age. “I love you, too.”

Boromir made way for his brother. Faramir put his arms out. “Goodnight, Dad.” Denethor just looked away and sniffed. Faramir faltered.

Boromir grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They were quiet in the car for the first several blocks before Faramir finally said, “I’m sorry-”

“I’m not angry with you.” Boromir’s eyes had been fixed on the road, but at last he glanced at his younger brother. “Well, not just with you.” Faramir laughed, softly; Boromir joined him after a moment; and that was the end of that fight, at least between them. Nothing else needed to be said, because it had all been said a million times before. They knew the reality of their situation.

Boromir was by no means a perfect brother, but he was a good one, as far as siblings went. He had let his little brother move in with him after law school, because Faramir needed to pinch pennies if he ever had any hope of paying off his student loans – and Legal Aid was not any kind of way to get rich quick. They made good roommates, respectful of each other’s space, able to mingle well together, because they liked each other’s company. Boromir had their father’s temper, and also like their father, liked things as they were and had always been – but like their mother, his nature was kind, even generous. He had just that much more capacity to listen. It was why Faramir loved him.

When he’d first moved in, Faramir had told him, “Listen, if you ever need me out of the way – like if you want to bring a girl over-”

But Boromir had only laughed. “I haven’t brought anyone over before now, I don’t see that likely to change anytime soon.” Well, Boromir had never really been a romantic.

The only people who visited the house were Boromir’s friends, which quickly became Faramir’s friends. They got drinks with Aragorn frequently, and Faramir liked him; he was well educated, soft-spoken, and he shared Faramir’s feelings about justice versus control in policing. Legolas was alright, he never spoke very much. The younger group – Sam and Frodo, as well as his cousins – surprised him, but they were funny and fun, fiercely loyal and always ready for a good time. He was liking the life he was building here.

But if Boromir wasn’t interested in bringing girls home, Faramir could be convinced. Well, one girl, anyway. Most nights he fell asleep thinking about tan skin and long, blonde hair, and tonight he was cheering himself on the car ride back remembering the opening of the Blue Mountain Public House.

She was, without question, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Boromir hadn’t noticed, laughing as he had been with Merry and Pippin, and Faramir had to shake his arm to get his attention. “Do you know who that is?” His mouth was dry.

“Hm?” He glanced in the direction he was pointing. “Oh sure, that’s Éowyn Eorling, works at Meduseld Wine Tours. That’s her brother, Éomer, he’s a good guy. Used to be good friends with their cousin,” he added with a grimace. “He’s passed – accident.”

“That’s too bad,” but he said it numbly, registering consciously about every other word.

Éowyn Eorling…he tested the name on his lips every so often. She came in with a stack of advertising postcards, and leaned over the bar to catch the owner’s attention. “Is it okay if I leave these here?”

“Oh, sure. Local businesses, in it together!”

A stack of postcards, and a green pintuck shirt, and cut-off denim shorts – which showed off legs that went for miles, legs tanned from working in the sun, legs _absurdly_ strong from a life of working on horses. Faramir’s mind whirled indecently and he choked into his beer and blushed.

Bad enough he got his brother’s attention. “What is the matter with you?”

“N-nothing, I-”

“Boromir!” The brother, Éomer, had spotted their table and came over, exchanging a clasp of hands with the other. “The Sheriff’s Office let you out to have fun for once?”

“I should ask if your uncle knows you’re here,” he grinned, but quickly introduced his brother. “This is my brother Faramir, he just came home from law school.”

Éomer nodded politely to him, shook his hand, but continued on with Boromir. “Have to thank the deputies again. Some jackass in a little hotrod nearly ran over our tour group the other day. Aragorn slapped him with a ticket – bet it was a nasty one, too.”

“Ha!” Boromir seemed to get a kick out of that. “And he was complaining about doing traffic duty.”

Éowyn came over to the table to join her brother, greeting Merry warmly. “Where’s Aragorn? Is he coming?”

Boromir shook his head. “Too tired out.”

“Old stick in the mud,” said Pippin.

But all of this came to Faramir in a fog as he stared at Éowyn – and then tried to make sure he wasn’t _obviously_ staring at her, like some kind of creep – and then tried to steal only surreptitious glances as all the time he saw something else beautiful about her: how her lower lip in particular was pink and plump, and almost stuck out in a pout; the faint dusting of freckles across her nose from the sun; how silver-grey her eyes were.

And every night since he pondered these qualities, and brought to mind the music of her laughter, and the way her eyes and nose crinkled when she smiled, and how she rested both hands around her glass, and tilted her head when she was listening. He _had_ to see that woman again.

He was going to have to take one of those damned horseback tours.


	8. Brandy Hall Antiques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back home after a weekend away with a HEPA filter; still freaked out as hell, though, so keep the fic recs coming.

The tourist season officially kicked off with the Midsummer Parade. A tradition held in high esteem by locals, it also was a big draw for out-of-towners, and it marked the beginning of a spree of spending at local cafes, art galleries, and bottle shops. Merry was surprised when his cousin Pippin was staking out his usual spot in front of the antique mall. “Aren’t you meant to be working at the pub?”

“Closed down for the parade, nobody’s getting food while that’s going on!” Pippin cheerily replied. He was putting out folding chairs and was wearing a foam dome with two cans of neon-green soda attached. “I’ve just got to scuttle back for my shift at eleven-thirty.”

“Pippin, the parade doesn’t end until noon.”

That did give him pause. In a voice of deep hurt, he whispered, “I can’t believe they’d do that to a man.”

“Who’s this other chair for?”

“Faramir! Said he hadn’t seen the parade since he was just a kid, so I told him he could join me at the best watching spot on the route!”

The man himself arrived momentarily, face slathered with sunscreen and carrying a bottle of water. “Is that going to be enough chairs?” he asked. “What about your other friends?”

“Sam and Frodo have to help with the Bagend float,” Pippin reassured, dusting off the seat for Faramir. “It’s usually just Merry and I.”

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

“It’s the more the merrier with us. Ha! ‘Merry’er!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Merry sighed, taking his own chair and pulling out a thermos of cold brewed coffee. As professional parade watchers, Merry and Pippin explained each tradition to their new guest in great detail. “Of course, your dad’s been the Grand Marshall for years and years.”

Faramir sighed, shifting in his chair. “I’m sure he loves that…”

“It’s too bad Boromir and Aragorn have to work the parade.” Aragorn had swung by on his bike earlier in the morning, reminding Merry that setting off any of Gandalf’s fireworks on the route was unlikely to be seen as a good joke; and really, he hadn’t done that in _years_ – since he’d been caught at it and threatened with arrest by Denethor… But Aragorn was smart enough to confiscate his supply of pop-its as well, the killjoy.

“At least with their job they still get to see it,” Pippin sniffed. “Eleven-thirty, I have to explain to Gloin that the parade is _sacred_!”

“I think Gloin is more interested in profane business than sacred tradition,” Faramir smirked. They could hear the high school marching band as the parade made its way down the main street, but the first marchers were the parade sponsors. Greenwood had its traditional vinyl banner; other shops had smaller advertisements, or just people in branded shirts throwing candy to the excited children on the route. Faramir had to hold Pippin back from diving for some. “That’s for the kids!”

“I haven’t finished maturing!”

“Hey!” Merry perked up. “There’s Théoden, on Snowmane!”

That caught Faramir’s attention as well. He could see the family resemblance to Éowyn and her brother, though the man’s blond hair was fading considerably to white. He was dressed in full rodeo regalia, and the horse was similarly kitted out in green leather tack, studded with colorful glass cabochons and silver tassels. He had a flag for Meduseld Wine Country Tours connected to the show saddle by a leather strap, and he and the horse moved like one creature in perfect unity. Snowmane was startlingly white, absolutely huge so far as Faramir could tell, and it seemed there was no trick he could not perform at his rider’s discretion: he bowed before a little girl in a pink dress; he danced lightly side to side; he twirled in circles, to the left, then to the right; and through it all, Faramir could not catch any sign that Théoden directed him in any way, rather that the rider thought what they should do, and the horse complied. It was beautiful to watch.

As the pair got closer, Merry was up on his feet, waving his arms above his head. “Théoden! Hey, Théoden!” The rider noticed him, and doffed his hat for him. Snowmane even reared up briefly before continuing along the parade route.

“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Faramir.

“Merry took riding lessons with Théoden when he was a kid,” Pippin explained. “He was like a second dad. Merry loves horses.”

He collapsed back into his chair with a deep sigh. “It’s a real shame we won’t get to see him geared up like that for the tri-county rodeo this year.”

“Why, is he not going?”

“He’s not,” Merry grimaced, “but there won’t be any horse sports this year, either.” At Faramir’s obvious confusion, he sighed. “There was an accident last year. Théoden’s son, there was a rock in the arena. It tripped his horse, and at that speed, it just – well, he broke his neck.”

“That’s terrible,” Faramir said, drawing back slightly. “Did he- is he still-”

Merry shook his head. “So no horse sports this year. And even if there were, Théoden isn’t letting any of the family compete. He’s kind of like the patriarch, you know – I don’t mean that in a bad way! It would just be hard to go against him because you know it would hurt him, and it’s impossible not to love him.” He sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s terrible on Éowyn, too. She was planning on going pro in the barrel race circuit. Not that – well – obviously it’s been terrible losing her cousin, too.”

“You know Éowyn?” He ought to be ashamed he perked up as much as he did, but he couldn’t help it. “She, uh,” he bought some time by taking a swig of his water. “She seems cool.”

“She’s cool,” Merry agreed, nodding as he watched the parade. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

“W-we should all hang out some time.”

Merry looked at him curiously, but was distracted by Pippin crying out, “Look, there’s Sam and Frodo!”

The Bagend float this year had a butterfly garden theme: a wreath of roses in the shape of a butterfly hung off the front; sticks with fluttering, metal butterflies were stuck among bunches of flowers – carnations, butterfly bushes, lavender, marigolds, nasturtiums, huge sprays of flowers in every color and arrangement. They’d worked up a small fountain, too, that trickled among the display, and Frodo and Sam were busy walking beside the float (no doubt making sure nothing went wrong), tossing flower buds to the attendees. The queen of the whole production was Rosie Cotton, with a pair of sparkling, fabric butterfly wings and a pair of deely boppers like bug antenna. Pippin couldn’t help but laugh, particularly at the cross look on Sam’s face. He knew what a nightmare the design of this float had been, particularly trying to put together the fountain, and he didn’t think his friend was enjoying the heat and the crowds much. But riding in splendor, Rosie was having a _grand_ time, and he knew Bilbo would be tickled with the success.

The high school marching band came along, and more floats and advertisements. It was a wonderful display, but Merry at last nudged Pippin in the ribs. “You’re going to be late.”

Pippin looked extremely torn. “Well, I’m sure if I just stay a few minutes-”

“Pippin!”

“Oh, alright! You’re as bad as Sam!” He grabbed his backpack and began shoving his way through the crowd, none too politely, either.

After a moment, Merry turned to Faramir and said, “Théoden’s probably made it to the end of the route by now. Would you like to come meet him? He’s probably loading Snowmane into the trailer.”

“Yes, alright.” He didn’t even hesitate.

They packed the chairs into the antique mall, and Merry took Faramir around behind the shop, so they could avoid the crowds and make it to the end of the route that much faster. “It’s the family business,” he said, nodding to the building as they went around.

Faramir studied it for a moment. “Do you like it?”

“Oh sure,” Merry nodded. “Everything in there has a story. I like old things – like Gandalf!” and he laughed. “I studied history in college. Antiques remind you that people in the past were still, well – people.”

“Is that why you like horses?” he asked as they approached the parade’s end, where a crowd of people were milling and unloading. “They remind you of the past?”

“No,” shrugged Merry. “I just think they’re neat. Ah!” He perked up at sight of his goal: a horse trailer with “Meduseld Wine Country Horses” painted on the side. “Théoden!”

“Meriadoc!” The old man chuffed his shoulder and ruffled his curly hair. “Where have you been hiding yourself, you haven’t come to see me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, nearly pushed over by the strong arm of the old rider. “Dad has me at his beck and call, you know.” He indicated Faramir. “This is my friend Faramir, Boromir’s younger brother.”

Théoden shook his hand, and the grip was strong and sure. “A pleasure to meet you. Strange we haven’t bumped into each other before now.”

“I’ve been away at different colleges for a long, long time,” Faramir smiled. “But now I have a job back home again.”

“That’s quite a different environment – college life to a small town in the wine country.”

“It’s-” He couldn’t finish – there was that flash of tan and blonde, and he saw Éowyn stroking Snowmane’s nose and slipping off his decorative tack. He tried mightily to go back to looking at Théoden. “Beautiful – being back home! In a beautiful part of the world.” Luck, for once, was on Faramir’s side: the parade organizer had come up to speak with Théoden and thank him for his participation. Both he and Merry were distracted. He wouldn’t be missed if he slipped away for a couple of minutes…

The last thing he needed was to spook the horse and get himself killed by one of those powerful legs, so he made a half circle, coming up behind Éowyn but to the horse’s side. “H-hello there.” He was tentative, but he didn’t spook her either, thank God, and she turned to look at him, blonde ponytail flipping over her shoulder.

“Oh, hi.” She was holding the show saddle in her arms.

“I’m Faramir,” he reminded her. “We met at the opening of the Blue Mountain Public House.”

“Oh, so we did.” She put the saddle to the side and began currying down the horse, who gave an appreciative nicker. “Were you watching the parade?”

“Yes, Merry brought me over. Said I should meet the horse.”

“Merry’s here?” She smiled, and Faramir felt lost in it. He pointed out where his new wingman was speaking with her uncle, and Éowyn seemed slightly warmer to him. “Do you like horses, then?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, knowing full well this was the closest he’d been to a horse since childhood pony rides at the carnival. He nodded at Snowmane. “He’s a….magnificent animal.”

“He is,” Éowyn agreed, speaking more to the horse than to the man. “Pride of the stable.”

“I didn’t think you’d need such nice horses for tour rides.”

This was, he thought, probably the wrong thing to say, based upon the look she gave him. “Snowmane isn’t just a tour horse, meant for taking visitors in a circle. He’s a show champion and renowned stud horse. His pedigree is unmatched. He was sired by Lightfoot.” Faramir nodded along with a very serious expression on his face, pretending he knew what this meant. She was so _passionate_! He was in love. “We use all kinds of horses on the tour side, that’s just the bread and butter business. We breed and show horses for the love of it.”

“It must be tremendously rewarding.” He was able to keep his hand from shaking as he reached it toward the horse’s nose, for he was all too aware an animal of this size could easily kill him, even if it wasn’t a predator. Snowmane dipped his muzzle into Faramr’s waiting palm, and he was surprised by how soft it was, and the whiskers that scratched at his skin. The large nostrils puffed softly as the steed sniffed at him, perhaps studying if he’d brought any snacks. “He’s a great example of a, um….Thoroughbred.”

“He’s a Quarter Horse.”

“I meant a, uh, thoroughly well-bred-” Éowyn was laughing, but Faramir didn’t mind too much. He already knew he was ridiculous over this woman. Snowmane picked his nose back up and seemed to join in the laughter, bobbing his head and batting at her a little.

“It’s alright.” Éowyn was smiling, which brought light to her grey eyes, and she stroked down the great beast’s neck. “Quarter Horses developed out of Thoroughbreds. I’m sure that’s what you meant.” Yes, he was definitely in love.

* * *

“There you are!” Gimli was holding the door open for him, clearly exasperated. “Five more minutes and I would have fired you.”

“It’s the Midsummer Parade, Gimli!” said Pippin miserably.

“Uh huh, and before that it was your board game night, and I suppose next month it’ll be for the rodeo.”

“Well-”

“'Well,’ nothing!” Gimli kicked at him (not seriously, deliberately missing by a foot), and Pippin scurried to get his hands washed and his apron on. “If the prep on those onions isn’t done in the next ten minutes, you won’t want me to come back and finish it for you!”

He was about to close the door and finish his own preparations for the expected post-parade lunch frenzy, but something made him pause. It was yellow hair, he realized, the long, yellow hair of a tall gentleman halfway down the block. At first he thought it was that insufferable Legolas Thranduilion, but he realized this person held themselves just a little differently, looked just a little older. His father, no doubt, the infamous Thranduil. He was arguing with someone, by the looks of the animated hand gestures, aggressive pointing and clenching of fists – an even taller gentleman, absurdly dressed in a black suit at the Midsummer Parade. His hair was red-gold, his mouth a thin, irritated line, and he said nothing as Thranduil berated him. Something about it gave Gimli a very queer, cold feeling in his stomach.

It was much worse when he spoke, though he caught only the barest snippets of conversation.

“It’s a matter of time, and Greenwood is ours.” It had stopped Thranduil cold, and he just stood, staring at him with a kind of wild look to his eye. “Struggling like a fish at the end of a hook is only prolonging the inevitable. And it doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Gimli realized he was staring as Thranduil began to turn in the direction of the pub. He quickly ducked back into the door, smoothing down his shirt as though it were suddenly wrinkled. He had a horrible, sweaty feeling on the back of his neck, almost like he’d taken a sudden chill. “Pippin…” His mouth was dry. “Pippin!” He stomped toward the kitchen. “Alright, Peregrin, move over, I’m helping you with those onions!”


	9. Deputy O'Gondor

He tried to remind himself that it was good to be bored. Bored meant there were no emergencies, it meant safety. Boredom was the goal.

This morning, his goal was to keep awake…

The Midsummer Parade needed cops present for a few reasons: the first was traffic control, which was perhaps the most tortuous task in existence; the second was to prevent general nuisance behavior – no alcohol on the street, no running in front of the floats, no firecrackers; and finally, to keep all attendees on their best behavior. Pickpockets loved the dense, distracted crowds. Thieves took advantage of valuables left in cars. There had been years where deputies prevented abductions and assaults. But after years of stringent police work and the well-advertised zero tolerance policy of the sheriff, the parade was no longer seen as such easy pickings. And now it was a fairly boring assignment.

He was positioned this year at the beginning of the route. He could see Frodo running by with another basket of flowers for the Bagend float; he saw Boromir leaning on the hood of his squad car and waved. Boromir waved back. Pippin had once asked if he wasn’t jealous that Aragorn had, in his words, “that sick bike,” while he just got a car. He’d just laughed – Aragorn could keep the bike, with his compliments. He was more likely to get killed on that thing, he was exposed to the elements, whereas Boromir had a machine with an engine that purred like a tiger, and not least of all, had heat in the winter and a/c in the summer. He tugged at the collar of his uniform as the sun picked up in the sky. He was going to need to take advantage of that a/c today…

The problem with such a boring posting was it gave him far too much time to think, which he was trying to avoid at all costs, for his thoughts inevitably came back to his family. The situation was becoming intolerable. Dad was already in a shit mood because that “upstart, soft-headed, snot-nosed deputy,” had the sheer temerity to run against him in the county elections; and then Faramir came home, and everything should have been great, and Denethor couldn’t stomach that his youngest son had spent seven years in school (and spent tens of thousands of dollars) only to become a lawyer that….what? Helped people? Boromir shook his head and took a swig from his water bottle. That wasn’t his father’s issue, and he knew it, Aragorn and Faramir were rubbing off on him.

That was half the problem, actually. He found himself changing. The world used to make perfect sense to him. Right and wrong were black and white, easily distinguishable. He knew what and who was good and bad. He knew this had all started with Aragorn, too, when they were young Academy cadets. He had hated the other man then: so aloof, thinking that he was so cool, knowing everything, scoring highest on every exam, every fitness assessment. What a prick. But that was precisely the problem, of course, that Aragorn wasn’t a prick. They were stuck together as partners after being set loose by their trainers at the Sheriff’s Office, and he was forced to get to know the man. Aragorn wasn’t aloof so much as he was _shy_. He didn’t think he was particularly cool, he didn’t actually like talking about himself much. But he knew so much because he’d studied hard in college, and his physical fitness and sharpshooting were from his time in the military.

“You have all that, and you decide to work as a _cop_?” Boromir remembered being baffled as they sat across from each other on a midnight lunch break; the younger guys always got the graveyard shifts. “Why? You’d have veteran’s preference, you could go anywhere and do anything.”

Aragorn chewed slowly and sipped his coffee, gathering his thoughts. “I wanted to help people.” It had blown him away. “What about you? You could do anything yourself – why did you become a cop?”

No one had ever told him that before. “I always wanted to be a cop.” Aragorn just nodded, and accepted the answer. But _why_ had he always wanted to be a cop? His dad, of course. O’Gondors had been keeping the peace in this county before half the towns were even incorporated. His grandfather had been Chief of Police at the county seat. His great grandfather had become a local hero after he stopped a string of bank robberies. Their pictures and stories lined the halls of his entire life. There was never any question what he was born to be.

Which was alright with him. He did like his job, and, well – he also liked helping people. It was Faramir who bucked against tradition. As far as Boromir was concerned, it didn’t matter, as long as his brother was happy. So what if he went into Legal Aid, it was a noble enough profession. But it was against the status quo. Boromir wasn’t the only one changing, he knew it. His father wasn’t aging well – he was growing more controlling, more paranoid, more full of bile. Authority was to be respected, not questioned. People should be happy with their lot. Maybe if Mom had still been alive, things would have been different – but she wasn’t, and he was still here.

He used to just repeat everything his father had taught him. “Shouldn’t run if he didn’t do anything wrong,” and, “Just comply and nobody would get hurt.” Aragorn didn’t argue when he said these things, just listened, and over time he would reply with things like, “You ever notice we let this kind of person off with a possession charge, and this sort of person we hammer?” Or, “Man, if I can’t keep my cool enough to not shoot someone at a traffic stop – I’d think I was a pretty shit cop.”

And because Aragorn always listened, never lectured, never threatened…Boromir heard him. And he began to say, “Yeah. You’re right.”

He was changing, and it scared him a little. And…somehow, it also excited him, too.

Faramir noticed it as well. Something would break in the house, and he could fix it without swearing a blue streak or throwing his tools, and his brother said, “Your temper’s gotten better.” Dad would refer to someone as a “naugrim,” and it was Boromir who told him, “Dad, you can’t say that. It’s offensive,” before Faramir even opened his mouth. He just didn’t feel so constantly twisted up inside, which was how he had been since their mother died. He hung out with the friends he shared with Aragorn, and they all liked him, and they all supported him, and they all cared about him. He felt…safe. He felt like he didn’t have to prove something to the world, through anger and violence and control.

He was happier. And he was grateful, too.

“Deputy O’Gondor!” He straightened at the sound of his name, and noticed old Bilbo Baggins rushing over to him in that funny little mincing walk of his, carrying a basket of flowers for the float. “Deputy O’Gondor! Just the man I needed to see!”

“Yes, Mr. Baggins, everything alright?”

“How do I report someone for harassment.”

That surprised him. “What?”

“There is a gentleman – nay, not a gentleman, a _scoundrel_ calling my shop every day and I can’t get him to stop!”

“Is he saying anything threatening? Inappropriate?”

“No, of course not.” He looked shocked at the suggestion.

Boromir sighed. “Is he calling to order something?”

“No…” The older man blushed a little. “He’s just trying to get me to talk to him.”

“…What?”

“He is trying to – oh, alright, it’s my ex-husband.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Mr. Baggins, the Sheriff’s Office can’t mediate marital disputes.”

“Well, what good is it, then!” He was tapping his foot angrily. “I don’t pay taxes so you can…keep this car shiny and harass loiterers!”

“I’m sorry to tell you, sir, but you do.” He rolled his shoulders back and said, “If he sets foot on the property, we can issue him a trespass notice. If he is actually harassing you – and I don’t mean just calling the shop – I’d advise you to seek a civil injunction. That’s civil, mind, not criminal – that leaves the Sheriff’s Office out of it.”

“Oh, very well.” He sighed, and took up a carnation from his basket, tucking it next to the deputy’s badge. “But I’ll be calling you specifically if I need that trespass notice.”

He hurried off again, and Boromir called, “I’ll be waiting for that!” He looked down at the little carnation, peach colored, smelling faintly of clove. His father wouldn’t approve of that, not on duty.

He was going to keep it anyway.


	10. Blue Mountain Public House II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, guys. No dramatic reason, just totally slipped my geriatric mind. More tomorrow.

The pub was succeeding in its goal of becoming the local’s hangout spot. Tourists were more frequent during the lunch hour, or if they were young couples wanting the “authentic” town experience they might come later; but most tourists were attending exclusive winery dinners in the evening, or visiting one of the high-end restaurants. Tonight the bar was mostly filled by locals, and Gimli got a cider for himself after his shift ended (like so many bar workers, he found himself hanging out at work even off the clock).

Pippin’s friends were in tonight, as they often were, whether he was working or not. Tonight he was, and it gave them the opportunity to torment him, while leaving generous tips to pay for the experience. Gimli liked them. Discovering he was new in town, the four youngest in particular had welcomed him with open arms. Frodo had smiled and said, “Well, since Bilbo is friends with Gloin, that’s like being cousins, isn’t it? You can be one of the cousins with us.”

“What?”

“Pip, Merry, and I. We’re all cousins, our family has been in the valley for, I don’t know – practically forever.”

“What about Sam?”

“Sam’s just Sam,” he smiled at his friend as he brought over a plate of French fries to share. “But he’s one of us, too.”

Aragorn was here tonight, too, and Merry was instructing him in some card game that looked very complicated. “May I join your table?” Gimli asked them.

“Sure you can,” Merry answered, making room. “I’ll deal you in.”

“That’s al-”

“See, these cards here are your magic, you need them in order to play these ones here. The figures in the upper corner tell you how much of each type you need. Now, this grey one means you can use any-”

“Merry!” Frodo was summoning him at the bar. “Come here and tell Pippin how ridiculous he’s being!”

“I’m not being ridiculous!”

“What is it.” Merry didn’t seem pleased to be interrupted in the middle of the explanation of his game, and the three young cousins made a great deal of noise at the bar.

But this was perfect as far as Gimli was concerned, for it left him and the deputy alone at the table. “You know that guy Legolas really well, don’t you?”

Aragorn seemed a little surprised at the question. Legolas had not returned to Blue Mountain since the disaster of the soft open. “Better than most. We went to school together as kids. Why do you ask?”

“You’ll think it’s strange-” He waited to be reassured that surely this was not the case, but Aragorn said nothing, so he pressed his lips into a thin line and continued: “It’s just that, uh….Well, I don’t pretend to understand the politics of wineries and all that. But is Greenwood…..doing as well as it seems?”

“What is this, financial espionage?”

“Nothing like that,” Gimli shook his head and waved his hand. “I told you it sounded strange. It’s just that I heard something.” He sighed. “My cousin, he’s dating a girl who works the tasting room. He was saying it’s been their worst summer yet, and it’s after a lot of bad summers. You know, bad economy, people aren’t buying wine; more wineries spring up, worse competition; harder to source grapes, and some of the vines are rotting. Things like that.” Aragorn said nothing, but his eyes were focused clearly on Gimli. He was listening. “And then….well – is someone trying to buy them out?”

“Who told you that.” Aragorn spoke quietly, swallowing down his beer, but he looked round like he was making sure they weren’t being watched.

“Nobody told me. I saw this business suit prick after the parade, talking about acquisitions. It seemed natural, one and one being two….”

“Alright, that’s enough of that.” He kept his voice low. “The last thing Greenwood needs is rumors about it.”

Gimli’s brown eyes were alight with this. “It’s true, then.”

“Try not to sound so happy about it.”

“You misunderstand. I think they’re a bunch of snobby pricks, but I don’t wish them ill. It’s like taking down a tiger, it would be a shame to kill something so noble.”

Aragorn seemed amused by the metaphor, the corner of his mouth curling into a small smile. “A buyout isn’t the same thing as a shut down.”

“It’s worse. It’s taking the soul of something and killing it, the business would be an empty husk of what it was. I just think that’s tragic.” He shook his head and took his own swig of beer.

“Thranduil hasn’t sold ye-”

“Peregrin Took, what is _wrong_ with you!” Merry seemed to be on Frodo’s side of the argument now, that Pippin was, in fact, completely ridiculous. “You had to ask Gloin what is in a _gin and tonic_!”

“I think it’s a very reasonable question if you haven’t made one before!”

“…It’s a gin and tonic!” He was almost screaming. Tourists who weren’t used to this looked nervously at each other; the regulars ignored it as just another evening at the pub.


	11. Greenwood II

Legolas liked working weekdays at the tasting room. It was quieter, yes, slower – but the people who did come in were really interested in wine, not just tourists checking a box so they could brag about their trip through the wine country. The silence gave him time to work on back end details as well, sketching out future events, or even just perusing catalogs to see what they could put up for sale in the tasting room to bring in that much more money. The big seller at the moment was pour spouts with animal heads, cast in pewter. Thranduil thought they were ridiculous, but he didn’t argue with the results. It was an hour before closing, no one was in, he was comparing branded clothing options, and Tauriel said, “Can I take my last break?” Legolas agreed, and that was how he came to be alone when _they_ walked in the door.

He hadn’t paid much attention at first, launching into his welcome spiel and explaining the flight options for the day. He only really looked at the guests when he handed over tasting cards: it was the red hair that caught his attention, thick and curling, held back with a single tie; then the stature, shorter than he was, but built like a fridge, arms thickly corded with muscles and a tattoo peaking beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt; and Pippin was also there.

Legolas stood frozen for the present, almost unable to speak. Gimli smiled at him and gave Pippin a little shake by the shoulder. “It’s our day off, so I told Pip he had to show me around.” Pippin didn’t look happy about it, either. How had he managed to drag him to Greenwood? Legolas hadn’t been able to coax the youngest of their friends to the winery for love or money. “Do you do industry discount?”

“Y-yeah, um. Yes, of course.” He tapped the code for “Waived tasting” into the register and handed the receipt to Gimli. “Would you like to sit on the patio, or-”

“Let’s do the tasting bar,” he smiled at Legolas. “That way we can hear about what you have on offer.” Pippin groaned and Gimli tried to subtly elbow him in the ribs; he succeeded in the elbowing, not the subtlety.

The guests took their seats at the bar, Gimli resting his elbows along the smooth wood, and his brown eyes looked intently at each bottle, each picture, each glass. Legolas actually felt himself blushing as he set out the first pour, which had never happened to him before. “We’re starting out with our two year Chardonnay, which is made with grapes sourced from around the region, not just our own stock-”

“It’s hard to find a good Chardonnay.” He was surprised Gimli had an opinion, already swirling the pale yellow liquid in the glass and studying the way it caught the light of the afternoon. “Too many places just smother it in oak, I’m not interested in drinking trees.” Pippin was watching what Gimli did and following along accordingly.

“Our Chardonnay is good.” He didn’t feel defensive, strangely enough. He watched Gimli take his first sip, and the light of his eyes seemed to agree. “This one isn’t going to have that problem, it’s aged completely in steel, so it stays crisp and refreshing.”

“That’s delightful.” Gimli downed the whole thing without a thought. Pippin tried, his eyes bugged, and he spit it back into his glass. Legolas moved the spit bucket over to him, and Pip got the hint and poured it in. “I’d have that at a barbecue.”

Legolas’ hands tightened along the bottle, his eyes starting to shine. “I had it with chicken in a pineapple glaze last week.”

“Genius.” Pippin was groaning and looked like he was going to fall off the stool if he had to listen to this kind of conversation. They ignored him. “You know,” Gimli said, leaning forward, “the best Chardonnay I ever had was aged in cement.”

“What?” Legolas leaned forward as well.

“I swear, a big cement egg is what it looked like! I bet I have pictures on my phone…”

He hadn’t gotten to have a conversation this fun all week, even if Pippin was currently entertaining himself by drawing lewd shapes in the condensation left on his glass. Legolas began pouring the next white, another Chardonnay done partly in oak and partly in steel when Tauriel came back from break. She looked at the guests, and looked at him, and he just said, “I’ve got this one.”

Gimli swirled this sample around his tongue and nearly purred. “What a wonderful mineral quality. It’s grown in alluvial soil, isn’t it?”

He could have sworn his pulse quickened. “It is! You sure know your dirt.”

“Oh, come on!” Pippin sounded outraged. “You cannot tell what kind of _dirt_ it’s grown in, you’re pulling my leg!”

“You can if you develop and refine your palette, Peregrin Took,” sniffed Gimli.

“You know what it tastes like? It tastes like grapes and stinky cheese.”

They continued to ignore him. “Of course, for noir, I prefer jory soil, it gives that peppery character.”

“I have the perfect bottle for you.” It wasn’t on the tasting flight, and it was a $65 bottle, but he didn’t care, marking it off on the expense sheet. “This is at the perfect age, and it was from a very hot year. I think you’ll like the punch of it.”

“Why does the temperature matter?” Pippin was at least engaged enough to ask that.

Legolas opened his mouth, but Gimli said, “The hotter it is, the more sugar the grape produces. That sugar turns into alcohol in the wine, and the alcohol is what carries the flavor. More alcohol, more intense taste.”

His eyes were glittering. “That’s…exactly right…”

“Ohhh.”

They continued the tasting, with more bottles not on the menu. Legolas and Gimli talked and talked – which bottle was his favorite, the different styles they were made in, the weather patterns of any given year. Pippin gave up and played a game on his phone. Tauriel did all the closing prep, and even flipped the sign to “Closed,” at five after, with a pointed (playfully pointed) look at her coworker. He didn’t have to say anything, Gimli already knew. “We’re keeping you from getting out of here.”

“No, no! It’s-”

“Oh thank goodness,” Pippin sighed with an expressive roll of his eyes.

Gimli gave him a look of his own. “Let’s buy our bottles so we can let them close the register, Pip.”

“ _Our_ bottles?”

Gimli got three of the first Chardonnay, three more of the bottle Legolas had first opened for him, a dessert wine – it was his personal best sale in two days. The red-head gave Pippin a clear look he was meant to be buying, too; he relented and got a bar of chocolate.

Tauriel began closing the till, but still Legolas didn’t want to see them go just yet. He hesitated only a moment. “Do you guys want to see something cool?”

“Yes!” Pippin was ecstatic at the offer, shoving chocolate into his face. “Dear merciful heaven, yes!” He took them out the front door and into the summer sun, lines of heat rippling off the gravel drive and the nearby vines; down behind the tasting room, to the out buildings; and into the cool and dark of the cellar. Legolas flipped on the high, overhead fluorescents, and even Pippin seemed momentarily interested. Large oak barrels, more than fifty gallons, were tucked onto shelves, marked in chalk with what they held and when they’d been poured in. There were large steel vats, too, and it was much colder in here than it had even been in the tasting room with the a/c on full blast.

“It’s wonderful,” Gimli whispered, his hand running along one of the barrels. “Is this charred oak?”

“Those ones are, these over here are new.”

“I’m trying to get into whiskey distilling myself,” he said, eyeing the walls of casks. “But that would be much smaller to start. Does your supplier do small orders?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Legolas, voice also low.

“Some people like to age whiskey in old wine barrels,” he continued, looks still far away. “And vice versa. That would be quite a thing to try.”

“It would.” They stood quietly like that in the chill of the cellar, and it was peaceful and profound in its own, simple way.

“I’m hungry,” announced Pippin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The industry discount is a real thing (or was during my time in the winery, and in my particular part of the country). One great thing about the wine industry is wineries know they’re better off working together than competing against each other. If you’re ever out wine tasting, ask if they have any tasting cards on hand for local wineries; other tasting rooms will frequently drop off cards that let you get two-for-one tastings, or sometimes even free tastings.  
> Yes, cement aged chardonnay is a real thing, it’s kind of odd (only place I know who makes it is Columbia Crest, and I don’t know how wide the distribution is for that particular kind of wine outside the Pacific Northwest, but I’m sure they’re not the only ones who do this). But I’m the weirdo who prefers steel to oak on my chards, so.  
> Writing people having the conversations I have in wineries is, uh. It’s an experience. Pippin, however, is right about his tasting notes – every palette is unique, so every wine will have a unique character to the person drinking it. Your tastes are never wrong!


	12. The Municipal Park

The next big event that brought in the tourists was the summer regatta, an amateur, county-sponsored sailing race that was perhaps more well-known for its food and drink than for its boating – and, of course, the evening fireworks. Like the parade, it was a beloved local tradition, groups staking out spots in the grass by the river, putting out blankets, and picnicking as the boats went by. Tourists parked along the boat ramps or the docks, or got tables at riverside cafes; but townsfolk knew the best place for the regatta was the municipal park, neighboring Greenwood Cellar’s drive, and tourists intruded at their peril. The park was shaded by old oaks and, at the water’s edge, willows, and while this meant sometimes there were issues of wet grass or mosquitoes, it was compensated by this one cool spot in the heat of summer, and the peace and privacy of the park.

“Sam, you’ve outdone yourself.” Bilbo was removing the cover on a dish of scalloped potatoes, smothered in cheese and dotted with meaty hunks of ham.

“Bilbo, you can’t start eating yet!” scolded Frodo, helping Sam set out their very large quilt reserved specially for the summer picnic.

“I’m not eating – I’m testing for quality.”

“At least wait for Merry and Pippin!”

He would have made some kind of remark that he had to get his share before the young cousins arrived like locusts on a field of grain, but was stopped by a familiar face in the gathering crowd, and nearly dropped the potatoes in his shock. “Heaven help us. Boys, move.”

“Bilbo, whatever is the matter?”

“Put me under that quilt. Shove me into the cooler. Do _something_ -”

Frodo was quickly able to ascertain the source of his uncle’s horror when he noticed Gloin approaching, a large growler in each of his broad fists – and a familiar presence walking beside him. “Hello, Frodo! Brought a present for your uncle!” The pub proprietor offered up one of the growlers, beaded with condensation, and Frodo took it with thanks. “Could have sworn I just saw – ah, there he is!” Bilbo had failed to use Sam as a shield, and he was spotted. If it had been only Gloin, it would not have been an issue. The matter was that _Thorin_ was with him. “Brought you a nice, crisp cider, Bilbo.”

“That’s very lovely of you, Gloin, thank you,” he was sniffing as if he had not just tried to hide himself from view. “….hello, Thorin.”

Thorin had lost none of his intensity in the years since Frodo had last seen him, and his striking eyes were simultaneously very clear, and yet also almost fogged over, as if he looked at the young man’s uncle through a quartz crystal. “Hello, Bilbo.”

Frodo restrained a smirk and said, “Gloin, are you passing these out to everyone?”

“Well, to good friends-”

“You must have tons more to unload. Sam and I will help, won’t we, Sam?”

“I don’t-”

He grabbed his friend with one arm, and Gloin with the other, saying, “Come along, let’s get these delivered while they’re still cold!”

Bilbo looked at his retreating back with slack-jawed horror. “Frodo Baggins,” he yelled across the field, “I’m disowning you for this!”

“Then Pippin will take over the shop!” was the returned call.

“Oh damnation, he’s right about that….” Thorin was still looking at him in _that_ way. Bilbo directed his ire at him, instead. “You have a lot of nerve, Thorin Oakenshield-”

“I didn’t come to bother you, I swear it.” His voice was still deep and smooth and full of a note which romantics might have called “yearning,” but which Bilbo called “decidedly unfair.” “Gloin asked me to come, he wanted to get me out of the house. I just walked over to say hello.”

“Well, hello. And goodbye. Don’t,” Bilbo leveled a finger at him as Thorin’s eyes became only more intensely blue, “don’t you try that puppy dog nonsense on me. It doesn’t work when Frodo does it, and I’m not about to bend for you.”

“I understand.” Thorin nodded. “I hope you have a good afternoon.” With that, the man turned to go, walking all of three steps before Bilbo stopped him again.

“You really do take the cake, you know, you are the most _irritating_ man on the planet!” Thorin stopped and turned, not sure if he was being summoned to return or not. “I haven’t finished yelling at you yet, come back here!” Dutifully, Thorin did so. Bilbo was absolutely red with frustration, and, with his round cheeks, was reminiscent of a tomato. “How dare you call my shop every day and bother my employees?” Thorin hung his head at that. “You know you’re being a nuisance. You can’t always have it your own way!”

“Yes, Bilbo.”

“Don’t ‘yes, Bilbo,’ me. Ought to throw you into the river for all the trouble you’ve caused me.” He gave a very big huff, his rage momentarily spent, and went back to Sam’s abandoned scalloped potatoes. He gave himself a very large helping and pooh-pooh to whatever Frodo had to say about it later; this was already his fault. “Well, where are you keeping yourself these days.”

“With my sister and th-”

“The boys, of course.” He shoved a spoonful of potato into his mouth, chewed it, swallowed, and continued. “And how are they?”

“Quite well.” Thorin relaxed incrementally. “Kili’s seeing a girl, she actually works at one of the local wineries. Seems quite serious about her, too.”

“Really.” That did surprise Bilbo a little bit. “Well – good for him. Are you going to keep standing there like a bloody great statue or are you going to sit down?”

“I-”

“ _Sit_.” Bilbo emphasized his point by plopping down himself, shoving yet more potatoes into his open mouth.

This allowed a much kinder silence to develop between them, and Thorin looked now not just at Bilbo, but at the park and all its attendants, and the way the trees glowed green as the sun filtered through their leaves. “It’s very nice to be back here again.” His voice was soft and heavy with nostalgia. “I remember our days at the regatta very fondly.”

“Yes,” Bilbo snorted. “The last one sticks out in particular, when you started screaming that someone had stolen our keys, and you were going to beat up that poor man for it-”

“Alright, yes, I remember.” Thorin sounded the slightest bit frustrated, but he held it in check, at last looking again at Bilbo. “I was very sick,” he said it flatly, but he looked straight at the other, and he never flinched. “But that’s a reason, not an excuse. Everything I did was my own. And I’m sorry for it.”

For his part, Bilbo continued to chew on his potatoes, and he didn’t look away from Thorin, either. It was all the things he wasn’t doing that Bilbo found interesting: no wriggling out from responsibility, no demanding, not even losing his temper. These had been but a minority of Thorin’s sins in the last ruined days of their crumbled marriage. It was a sad story, like so many others – the accident in the metal shop, the pain killers, the need and desperation when those ran out. And from there, the personality changes, the paranoia, the violence. Bilbo had lost his husband long before he ever divorced him.

He swallowed. “Gloin tells me you aren’t drinking.”

“Not for the moment, no.” Thorin went back to studying the park and the river. “That was never the problem, of course, but I….want to be careful. Just to make sure it wouldn’t make me slip again.”

Silence stretched between them again, until Bilbo said, “Would you like some scalloped potatoes? Samwise made them, they’re quite good.”

* * *

The first boats were drifting down the river, their white sails catching the breeze, race teams moving excitedly from stern to aft to bow. Cheers went up among the watchers in the park. Éomer leaned over the arm of his chair and tapped his sister’s shoulder to get her attention. “Merry’s waving to us.” Éowyn looked in the direction he pointed and saw Merry. He was sitting with his cousins, and Sam, all of whom seemed to be having a very good time teasing that red-haired young man from the pub. This was normal enough, she saw them there regularly, but there was a blond as well, which she could have sworn was one of the crew at Greenwood. He was leaning against the other's shoulder, laughing about something, and it struck her as interesting they were the only two who touched, the others keeping a casual yet friendly distance. She waved back.

“Uncle, Merry’s waving.” Théoden turned, but unfortunately this let his niece notice that the sun had shifted, and he was no longer sitting comfortably in the shade. Her brow scrunched up in her concern. “Did you bring your hat from the car?” He grumbled some kind of excuse and Éowyn rose from her lawn chair. “I’ll go get it.”

“É, I’ll be fine.” But as Éowyn always took care of her uncle, she was not to be dissuaded, and trekked across the green field and to the parking lot.

She had just grabbed her uncle’s hat and was about to turn back, when she noticed another car pulling into the lot. This would not be particularly interesting, except that it was Aragorn who got out of the passenger seat. Éowyn’s heart leaped up excitedly, she opened her mouth to call out to him-

He had gone around to the driver’s side door and opened it, and a tall and slender girl stepped out. Her long, black hair was tied back in loose braids, and she wore a sun dress of light blue, the gauzy skirts drifting around her in the soft breeze and making her look like some kind of wood nymph stepped out of an old story. She was laughing at something Aragorn had said, and Éowyn felt her stomach drop. It could be a friend, she tried to reason, a colleague – perhaps even a cousin! But if it was a cousin, it was a kissing cousin, and Éowyn could not delude herself. The woman was beautiful, and she stepped lightly into Aragorn’s arms as one well practiced, and she fit there, and they kissed – and kissed – and-

Éowyn flattened herself against the side of the car so she did not have to see them, and would not be seen, pathetic as she was, crying over something so stupid. And crying terribly, too, great, ugly sobs that racked her bodily, and she held her uncle’s hat against her mouth to stifle the noise. She did not know how long she had been there against the hot car, but she jumped when she heard someone say, “Éowyn.” It was her uncle, looking at her with immense pity and concern – he had come looking for her. “My child, what is wrong.”

“ _I_ -!” She couldn’t speak, and instead flung herself into his arms. In spite of his age, Théoden caught her firmly as he always had, as if she were still a little girl, and tucked her head beneath his chin, stroking her long, blonde hair. “I’ve been such an idiot!” She was covering his shirt in tears and snot.

“You mustn’t say that.” His voice was deep and soothing. “You must never say that.” He pulled away and tilted her chin. “Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t want to, for she had been so foolish to hope for something like this – and then to admit to her uncle her desire to escape, that feeling of freedom she’d coveted on the back of Aragorn’s motorcycle… “I got my heart broken, Uncle.”

Théoden stroked his thumb down her tear-stained cheek and smiled sadly at her. “Whatever brought that about – it isn’t your fault, Éowyn.” He rested his forehead against hers and her sobs started to quiet. “Let’s tell Éomer to go break his knees.” She laughed, even through her tears.


	13. Greenwood III

“We have got to modernize!” The staff meeting wasn’t going well. Thranduil wasn’t even looking at either of them anymore, staring at a stack of reports on his lap, with his left hand shading his brow. Tauriel was leaning far over the table, desperate to get someone’s attention; but Legolas felt himself shutting off, shutting down. He tried to look between the two of them, or out the window, and finally he just stared blankly at the tabletop and wished he wasn’t there. “I know Oropher founded this place to be ultra-ritz, hoity-toity, nothing but the best here – and that was fine thirty years ago, but that’s not what the wine landscape is anymore!” She was impassioned in her speech. It was only too bad it was wasted on them. “We can’t keep trying to sell a few expensive bottles to a few rich customers, we have to expand our base to include more people at more moderate price points. Thranduil-” He glanced up at her at the sound of his name, and his stare was wicked. It did not stop her. “For God’s sake, they sell wine in _cans_ now. You have got to wake up to reality, not live in the past.”

“I suppose your little boyfriend at the bar introduced you to that?” Tauriel’s face was as red as her hair, but from anger, not embarrassment. She took her seat with a hard “thud.” “Any other ideas anyone wants to bring up?”

“We could give out samples and tasting cards at the harvest festival.” Legolas’ voice was robotic, even to him.

“It’s too late in the season to bring in many tourists at that point. We’d be throwing good money after bad.”

There was a long silence, and finally Legolas said, “For the next wine club party, I thought we should do a luau theme.”

Thranduil tapped his fingers along the table and at last replied, “Wonderful. Let’s work out the details for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had wine-in-a-can before. It was fine.


	14. Blue Mountain Public House III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, guys, sorry, did it again! No excuse, I'm just busy and old.

While waiting for the weekly pub quiz to start, Sam and the gang of cousins were working on posters to hang in the windows at Brandy Hall Antiques: “ELESSAR FOR SHERIFF.” “What do you think?” Frodo asked Gloin as he came around with another order of tots.

The barman studied it for a moment, stroking his beard. “Well, it’s straightforward, eye catching, to the point.” One sign they’d done with black letters on white, another in red, for Sam said that would create a sense of urgency, though Merry didn’t particularly believe him. “Are you doing this because you really think he’s the best for the job, or because he’s your friend?”

“It’s both,” Frodo said, screwing the caps back on bottles of tempera paint. “Aragorn wants to partner with the county Health Authority to dispatch mental health counselors to crisis calls, not just send officers. He wants more money to go into public housing than drug and gang enforcement. These are real changes that could make the county better, and Denethor won’t even talk about them. Maybe things _aren’t_ better the way they’ve always been.”

Gloin looked touched, but mastered the emotion and took a seat with them, a curious gleam in his eyes. “Now wait one moment, Frodo, take your Uncle Bilbo. He’s the one who called the cops on Thorin when he was at his worst. Don’t you think there _needs_ to be drug enforcement?”

“Thorin needed help.” He was completely nonplussed by the question. “He’s just lucky that he happened to get it in jail – not everyone does. It’s just that Denethor has been so good at getting money under his control, there aren’t enough resources left for the rest of the county programs. Maybe if there’d been more social programs available, things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.” He shrugged. “Anyway, how I vote isn’t based on Bilbo’s decisions.”

Gloin almost looked proud, or like he might start to cry. “Give me one of them signs.” Frodo’s eyes lit up and he smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me, Frodo – none of us blame your uncle. Not even Thorin did once he got clean.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did. Bilbo always did what he had to do to keep himself safe. I just have the opportunity to do something else.”

“I think that’s enough civic engagement for one night,” Merry said, wiping paint off his fingers with a paper napkin. “We can talk about upholding the social contract _after_ a good pub quiz, and several more rounds of lager!”

Frodo laughed while Gloin moved to hang the sign in a front-facing window. “Alright, what is the team name to be tonight? I swear Gandalf deducted points last time for the one Pippin came up with.”

“Hey!” Pippin, off-duty at the bar but never one to miss a good pub quiz, leveled his paint brush at the others. “‘Weed Blasters’ was a beautiful nod to the Garden Center _and_ a bit of amusing ribaldry.”

“You’ll have to do without me tonight, I’m afraid,” said Merry, dropping the used napkin on the table. “Éowyn’s been a bit glum this week, so I told her I’d help her win tonight to cheer her up.” There was no doubt in Merry's mind that missing the tri-county rodeo, and the kind of anniversary that marked, was weighing heavily on her at the moment.

“That’s hardly fair,” Sam protested, pointing to where she waited at a nearby table. “She’s got Faramir with her, and with all his schooling, that’s worth at least two of you. Besides, how are we going to overrule Pippin’s stupid answers without you here?”

“Hey!”

But Merry wasn’t listening to their arguing, whipping around instead to see that, just as Sam said, Faramir _was_ sitting next to Éowyn at the table. He seemed to be speaking to her, but she didn’t reply, eyes on the bar television as it played muted coverage of the rodeo. The young Mister Brandybuck quickly joined them, plunking down right across from Faramir. “O’Gondor, I didn’t know you liked pub quizzes.”

He stopped whatever he’d been trying to say and directed his attention to Merry. “I played a bit in school. I’ve got a head full of trivial nonsense.”

“Well, I guess he can stay, if _you_ say it’s okay, Éowyn.”

She did not tear her eyes away from the screen, but it didn’t even seem like she was watching it. “I don’t care.”

“We’d better get a pitcher before more teams show up.”

Faramir started to stand from the table. “I’ll get i-”

“No,” and there was something in Merry’s voice that stopped him. “It’s Éowyn’s turn, tradition around here says the youngest buys the first round.” He nodded toward his friends’ table, where Pippin was being sent off to get the others’ drinks. “Isn’t that right, É?”

The other man hesitated, half standing. “But-”

“Yeah,” she sighed, and finally looked away from the television, smiling at Merry. “That’s what Théodred always said, anyway. Do we have a preference?”

“Lager, it’s too hot for anything else.”

She walked away, and Faramir watched for her to be out of earshot before turning on Merry. “How could you remind her of her cousin at a time like this?”

“You are the dumbest, most obvious person in this bar, and I’m saying that when Pippin is here.” He grabbed a couple packets of sugar from the tiny tea tray and threw them at a very stunned Faramir. “If you drool any harder, you’re going to create a puddle on the floor. I saved you from embarrassing yourself.”

He turned beet red. “W-well….do you think she….?”

“She’s too wrapped up in everything else to notice you looking like a love struck fool, no,” Merry sighed, picking up one of the packets that had bounced off Faramir’s face, and returning it to the porcelain caddy. “And for your information, it’s better to remind her of the good times with Théodred than let her lick her wounds over and over. You’ve got a lot to learn, O’Gondor.”

Faramir picked up sugar packets from where they'd fallen on the floor. “I wasn't trying to be obvious.”

“I'd hate to see you being subtle. And if you hurt her-”

“I'd rather stab myself in the heart, I _swear_.”

Merry smirked and sat back, apparently pleased by the quick answer. “Well, good. Cause if you think her big brother would murder you, wait until me and her uncle get involved.”

As if compelled, Faramir looked back at the bar, where Éowyn leaned, waiting for the pitcher and laughing at something Gimli had said. “I’m not sure she even hears me when I talk.”

“You’re not going to get anywhere by buying her drinks and acting like some wall flower.” Merry was penciling in a team name onto the pub quiz sheet. “You’d be much better off being honest and direct. She’d respect that, and you’d get through to her much faster.”

“I couldn’t do that.” Faramir stared at his hands in his lap, pale from the very thought.

“What have you got to lose?”

“Everything. If she never says yes, at least she never says no, and then she doesn’t tell me to get lost and I can still….talk to her.” Merry threw another handful of sugar packets at him, but Éowyn was returning with the pitcher of beer and three glasses, so Faramir quickly changed the subject. “Why does the youngest have to buy the first round?”

“It’s tradition,” Éowyn was smiling as she set the glasses down, and seemed more animated than before; Merry might be on to something, irritatingly. “They’re the most likely to mooch normally, so they have to pay it forwarded when it comes to drinks.”

“Half the time Pippin borrows money from me to buy the first round.”

She sat down next to Faramir and tucked her blonde hair behind her ear as she began pouring. “Uncle Théoden said it’s been tradition since he was going to bars. Just one of those local things.”

“Hey,” said Merry, holding up the team answer sheet. “I’ve named us ‘We’ve Got Horse Cocks.’” Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but Éowyn had collapsed into such an uncontrollable fit of giggles, she had to lean against his arm to keep from falling out of her chair, and he shut it again in shock. Across the table, Merry winked at him. Apparently he had more to learn than he had known.

At the table reserved for the Quiz Master, Gandalf was laying out this week’s question sheet while Amatheil checked the microphone volumes. Gandalf was always able to find the broadest range of questions, and he had the best voice for it, so Gloin paid him in free drinks and food if he agreed to run the game. Amatheil tagged along because she liked helping, and Gandalf gave her his French fries if she kept score. Tapping on the microphone as soon as the speakers were switched on, he announced, “Teams, we’ll be starting momentarily. Please come write your names and members on my clipboard, thank you.”

Among the hubbub of teams getting settled or lining up to enter themselves officially in competition, the door to the bar opened, and a tall and slender figure slipped inside. Gimli turned from handing off Pippin’s pitcher to him just in time to see Legolas approaching the bar. He stopped, stunned; Pippin, his arms still outstretched to take the beer, was also stricken. They stood like that, the pitcher held by both sets of hands, until Legolas took a seat beside them, nervously tucking his yellow hair behind his ear. “Hi again.”

“Hi.” Gimli let go of the pitcher and Pippin nearly dropped it. “Come in for the quiz? I think there’s still time.”

“N-no, I…” He didn’t have an excuse, so he just said, “I’ve never really liked the taste of beer. It’s so bitter.”

Gimli gave Pippin a look, and he took the hint, not sticking around for this conversation and hurrying back to his teammates. To Legolas, he said, “I get it. But, it’s like wine – it’s all about developing that palette.”

Legolas looked at him. “Do you do industry discounts?”

He laughed, and began pouring tastes into shot glasses. “Tonight’s on me.” He lined the small glasses across in front of Legolas along the bar top, while over the microphone Gandalf went over last week’s winners and the drinks that would get teams bonus points if ordered. It meant no one was paying attention to the two figures at the bar, and it was almost private. Gimli pointed to the glass with the clearest liquid. “That’s a dry cider. Start with that.”

Legolas did as bid, sipping lightly, and nodding. “I like cider alright.”

“I have an experiment to try. Are you willing to take a chance?” After a slight hesitation, he nodded. “Try this one next.” It was very dark brown with a creamy head. Legolas sipped more nervously, but he didn’t make a face, eyebrow drawing up in his surprise. “That’s a stout. Do you like it?”

“Y-yeah…” He looked into his glass. “I like…uh….stouts…stout things…”

“Here’s the experiment.” Gimli pulled a bottle of prosecco from the fridge beneath the bar, and Legolas watched him curiously as he poured it into a larger glass, stopping when it was halfway full. He started to object when the bartender began to carefully float more stout over top, but Gimli just said, “Trust me.” He set the now-full glass before the other, and Legolas hesitated, his fingers just barely touching it.

Finally, he raised it to his lips and tasted. The stout was dark, but any bitterness was pleasant, and the heavy character of the beer coated his tongue the way a deep red wine might; and then there was the bite of the prosecco, bright and crisp, refreshing as the bubbles popped against his palette. He set the glass down again and watched the two alcohols slowly mingle together, tiny bubbles dancing through the dark brown beer until they met the creamy head at the crest. He felt sort of stunned. “It’s really good.”

Gimli smiled at him. “Sometimes, things that are really different complement each other.”

At the Quiz Master’s table, Gandalf was sipping his own drink as he read off the team names. “-and returning this week is,” a put upon sigh, “‘Weed Blasters.’” Pippin cheered, but he was the only one. “Last, though perhaps not least, is,” he slipped his reading glasses further down his nose and examined the clipboard. “‘We’ve Got Horse Cocks?’” He set the clipboard down as the bar erupted into laughter. Amatheil looked horrified, and shoved more French fries in her mouth to cover this. “Meriadoc.”

“What!” Merry was on his feet while Éowyn was bent over laughing again, almost lying in Faramir’s lap. “Come down to the stables and we’ll show you that we do!”

“Amatheil, take five points from that team to start with. Let’s begin.” It promised to be another lively quiz night.


	15. Bagend Garden Center II

“Frodo,” Bilbo announced, coming around to the front desk, where his nephew was organizing product returns, “I’m taking off a little early tonight. I’m leaving you in charge of closing up.”

This would not have been so startling usually, except Frodo got a look at his uncle. “Bilbo, isn’t that your linen vest?” The waistcoat was a lovely brown, natural linen color, with horn buttons, usually reserved for summer weddings and other special events where wool would be too heavy. It was not normal attire when working at the Garden Center.

Bilbo looked down, as if having forgotten what he’d changed into. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He had a stern set to his mouth, while his nephew’s eyes were twinkling knowingly. “Well, if there are no other questions, say about my socks, I’ll be off.”

“You’re going out somewhere.”

“Yes, I’m going _out_ of this shop-”

“With someone.”

“That’s hardly unusu-”

“And it isn’t Gandalf or the Gaffer.” Bilbo just huffed at this, looking up at the ceiling and tapping his foot with a cross air. “Who is it? Where are you going?”

“Frankly, Frodo, that is hardly any of your business! Now, stop being impertinent, I’m going!” He nearly bumped into Sam on his way out, carrying in the new stock of fig trees on a cart. “I suppose you have something to say about how I look, too, Samwise?”

“N-no, sir-” Sam was quite startled by this, though he now got a look at his boss. “Isn’t that your linen ve-”

“I have a _date_ , now if you’ll excuse me!” Bilbo stormed out of the building while Sam stood there, absolutely stricken, and Frodo laughed fit to die.


	16. Greenwood IV

“The season isn’t over yet.” Legolas had been warm and positive these last few days, even as their guest numbers grew worse, even as he’d worked entire shifts without Tauriel to relieve him. “I mean it, ada, I think we could do a really great sale at the harvest festival. Tastings, case specials, food samples for pairings-”

His father was barely listening, going through a large stack of documents. “We’ve been through this already-”

“I have ideas, lots of ideas! Tauriel was right, you know, the wine landscape really has changed. We can turn this around. We could get more involved with the local businesses, we could have more partnering events-”

“Let me guess,” Thranduil’s voice was cold. “The bar?”

Legolas only hesitated momentarily. “If we had that kind of brand loyalty-”

“I don’t want to discuss this right now.”

“If you just let Tauriel and I work on-”

“I had to let Tauriel go.” He said it to the pile of papers, eyes down, voice soft.

Legolas stood, stunned. “All because she disagreed with you? You can’t be serious!”

“That wasn’t the reason.”

And it all clicked, in that instance. He could see the logo on the signature line, _Dol Guldur Industries_ , he could see the document titles, the forms. Transfer of Title, Conditions of Sale; he should have been horrified, outraged, and maybe once he would have been. But the flowers in their baskets out on the patio had grown over the summer, and so had he. Legolas felt stronger and more steely than he ever had. “Ada – let me be the winemaker for one of the barrels this year.”

“We’ve discussed this all summer – we need every grape we can get for our reliable sellers. Now isn’t the time for your experiments.”

“I can do this, ada, I can! When are you going to trust me?” Thranduil didn't answer, just staring into all the documents, through them, truly. Legolas gently grabbed his father's wrist. “Promise me you won't sign until after the harvest festival.”

“Legolas, the longer we delay, the worse this becomes.”

“ _Please_.”

Thranduil turned, and the sadness in his eyes stopped his son cold. He cupped Legolas’ face with his left hand and said, “You must know how much I wish things were different. I wish I could give you a hundred barrels – but I can’t any longer. And I am sorry, that I can’t give you Greenwood as your inheritance. But some fights are beyond even your ada.” The office was quiet after that.


	17. Deputy O'Gondor II

“-absolute disgrace to the uniform! A pathetic excuse for an officer and unfit for parking enforcement!”

Boromir could hear his father yelling all the way on the other side of the office, even with the door closed. It was lucky that it was the end of the day on a Friday, as there were fewer people around to bear witness. No one else needed to hear this…

Then again, he ought to do something. Ought to go to Internal Affairs and make a complaint, and the more witnesses then, the better. But he was kidding himself and he knew it. It was hard enough standing up to a boss – it was much, much worse if the boss was your father.

The door to the sheriff’s private office opened, and Aragorn stepped out, eyes blazing fiercely, but mouth set in a grim line. A couple people looked up as he passed by to his desk, but most had the sense to mind their own business. Boromir waited to approach until he’d collected his stuff and headed for the door, falling in step beside his friend.

They were silent until they got to the parking lot, then Aragorn finally spoke. “He’s saying I was endangering fellow officers by not using greater force on Thursday’s call.” He ran his hand through his hair. “That’s what today’s rant was about. The guy was a tweaker, I had it under control – the taser was probably more than was even necessary.”

“Is he putting you on desk duty?”

“He threatened to.” Putting Aragorn behind a desk to push papers without any ability to affect change would be the worst kind of torture. It would be like breaking the wings of a falcon to leave him stranded on the ground – monstrous. “He won’t, though, it would look like retaliation.” He sighed, leaning against Boromir’s car, running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not much longer. Election night is in a few weeks and then it ends one way or another.”

“You can’t leave if you lose, Aragorn.”

“I can’t stay, either. Maybe I was wrong – I don’t know. I don’t know what else I could have done.” And Boromir knew he meant about the election, about the call, about his chosen career, about his whole life.

He hesitated a moment before saying, “I think this is my fault.”

“It isn’t,” he assured, turning to fumble with his own keys and unlock his car. “You weren’t the one complaining about the call on Thursday.”

“No, not that. I mean,” he shuffled uncomfortably, and finally just said it: “We got into it last night, some of the things he said – well, it doesn’t matter what he said, I guess.” Boromir raised his head and his voice was steady. “I told him I voted for you.”

Aragorn looked at him, and both their eyes were clear and gazes even. “Why are you telling me this? Your vote’s private, I never would have asked. And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did vote for your father.”

“Because,” he said, feeling like this was the moment his life made sense again, in ways totally different from what it had been before. “You needed to know.” They stood like that, in the parking lot of the Sheriff’s Office, amid a silence that was too important to break, the sun making their collars damp with sweat. Boromir at last said, “I’ll see you later,” and started to climb into his car.

“Boromir.” He paused, looking over the hood to Aragorn. He had a very faint smile on his face, and his grey eyes were lighter than they had been in weeks. “Thank you for that.” Boromir did not reply, because there was nothing more to say, and even if there had been, he didn’t have the words to make it right. This was enough.

* * *

When he got home, he found he still could not find fault in any of his choices of the last twenty-four hours. His father needed to know that he wasn’t the same person he’d been – and he liked this new world, with these new people and new ideas. That he felt at peace with himself for the first time since, well – probably since their mother had died. She would have been proud of him, he thought. And Aragorn needed to know the war he was waging was still worth fighting, and that there were people who believed in him. If Denethor lost the election, the fallout for the family would be intense; both sons would no doubt catch blame as traitors, and his father’s deteriorating mental health would be done no favors. But this was the time to plant the flag and make a stand. A decision like that had always been the surest way for him to know himself, his place in the world, and to feel calm and steady. No, he had no regrets about any of it.

So Boromir was in a good mood when he dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and grabbed a beer from the fridge, walking into the living room. He thought he might ask his brother if he felt like going out this evening – to the bar, to the park, anywhere at all – when he discovered Faramir sprawled on the couch, looking almost still as a statue, stricken with something like grief. Boromir calmly took a swig of his drink, mood still too high to be immediately worried. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I asked Éowyn if she’d like to go to the harvest festival with me.” Ah, Éowyn; half the time if his brother spoke at all anymore, it was about the Eorling girl. He was a man besotted, and as amusing as it was, it also baffled him. “She said she’s going with Aragorn.”

Boromir began to laugh, which was clearly not the reaction his younger brother had been expecting. Faramir sat up, looking shocked that he could be so callous, while Boromir collapsed into an armchair and laughed himself into a coughing fit. When he’d at last caught his breath, he took another swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That,” he coughed again, still smiling at his little brother, “is going to be news to Aragorn – and his fiancée.”

“His-” Faramir went still again, eyes widening as his mind world. “But then- she’s not-”

“I think Aragorn would sooner chop off his right arm than betray Arwen – or some other appendages, if it came to that…”

“Then,” Faramir sat forward, elbows propped against his knees and mouth drawn down to a frown as he thought. “Then she told me that to get rid of me and get me to go away.”

Boromir gabbed a throw pillow and chucked it at him. “You’re so thick. Stop mooning over her, go to the festival, and see for yourself! Could be when she finds Aragorn isn’t her knight in shining armor, she’ll finally notice you. Anyway,” he took another drink, “you’ll be much more attractive if you stop pouting and have a good time.”

Faramir at last smiled. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

He shrugged, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Of course I know. I just didn’t have to spend all that extra time in law school to get any sense.” Faramir threw the pillow back at his brother.


	18. Bagend Garden Center III

Bilbo gathered everyone together for a quick staff meeting shortly after lunch – the permanent staff, the summer help, everyone, and he said, “Thank you all for being here! No one likes meetings, so I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to make an important announcement.” Nervous murmuring began among the employees, and Bilbo just smiled, waving them down. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion – I’m not quite as young as I used to be.” They all laughed, but kindly. “With that in mind, I think it may be time for me to stop being a confounded old bossy boots, and start enjoying myself more.

“Therefore, starting today, I will begin handing over ownership responsibilities to my nephew, Frodo.” Everyone clapped politely; Frodo did not look shocked, but he did seem somewhat surprised. “The family business was always going to be handed down to him someday, and – well – perhaps someday starts now.

“But I have another important decision as well.” The staff quieted to hear this. “Many of you remember our old manager, Hamfast Gamgee, or Gaffer, as we called him. He was the first person I hired here at the Garden Center when we’d grown enough, and he’s the only manager we’ve ever had. As you all know, he retired last year and I’ve dragged my feet on replacing him. Well, I’d like to correct that now.” He glanced at Frodo, who smiled. “If the new boss has no objections, I would like to ask…” He put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Samwise. It’s an enormous pair of boots to fill, but you have rather big feet. Think you might like to manage Bagend?”

Sam was absolutely stricken, mouth agape. “Me, sir?” He looked from Bilbo to Frodo. “But if Frodo’s the new boss, he really should get to pi-”

“As if I’d pick anyone else.” Frodo smiled and came to stand beside his uncle. “Really, Sam – you love this old place almost more than I do. And heaven knows I’ll need all the help I can get. Say you’ll take it?”

“Oh, I….” Sam pulled out his handkerchief, covered his face, and promptly burst into tears of joy. The rest of the staff each gave him hearty congratulations in turn, and Bilbo set them all back to work, since for the moment, he was still in charge. Sam’s emotions only calmed some when Frodo held each of his arms. “This is….the happiest day of my life.”

“There’s a horrifying thought,” said Bilbo, slapping him on the back. “Ring up your father straight away, Samwise, I’m sure he’ll be very proud. Come on, Frodo,” he said to the new boss of Bagend. “Help me carry some boxes out to the car.”

Frodo dutifully carried a box of mementos out of Bilbo’s office in the back out to the gravel parking lot. “I know you always talked about it, Bilbo, but why now? And why the summer? Seems an awful trial by fire, I’ll really need your help.”

“I haven’t vanished, silly boy, and I’ll make sure you have it all under control before I step back.” He opened the back passenger door and Frodo put the box on the seat. “But you don’t want me hanging around so everyone goes over your head with any decision. Bagend’s yours now. You should do what you want with it.”

The young nephew looked a little sad. “I want to do what you would want with it.”

“Oh!” Bilbo ruffled his hair. “Let an old man retire and enjoy himself, or would you have me work until I’m one foot in the grave?”

“I think,” said Frodo, stuffing his hands into his back pockets, “that all these changes may have to do with something else in your life.” He smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling. “For example, this would give you more time to, say….travel with Thorin?”

Bilbo huffed, and shut the car door with more force than was strictly necessary. “Since I am still your boss, I’ll kindly thank you to mind your own business!”

“Alright,” he laughed, mood much improved to be so near the mark – and know his uncle was happy. “But if there’s another wedding, you ought to have living flower arrangements, and they all have to come from Bagend, or I’ll set Merry and Pippin on you.”

“A fate worse than,” Bilbo sighed with a roll of his eyes, but he did not sass Frodo in return, as a familiar truck pulled into the lot, the Greenwood label stenciled on the side. “Well, bless my boots, Legolas Thranduilion!” It was indeed the young vintner who stepped out, dressed casually in jeans and with his hair tied back, clearly not straight from the tasting room. “And how is your father? Everything alright with the flower baskets?”

Legolas was gazing around the lot, almost nervous, as if looking for someone. “Oh, good afternoon,” he replied courteously, quiet as always. “Ada is fine, thank you, Mr. Baggins. And the flowers are wonderful, as always.”

“I’ll bet you’re here for more fertilizer, yes? They’ll want water soluble, for how hot it is-”

Frodo put his hand at his uncle’s elbow. “I’ll handle this, Bilbo, go enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Oh, suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “Give my regards to your father! Tell him I’ll stop by for a drink soon.”

“He’d like that,” Legolas nodded, and Bilbo gave his goodbyes and drove off.

Frodo examined his friend carefully, mouth curling into a smile. “The fertilizer?”

The other just sighed. “Well, you’d know what I need, I’m sure.”

Another truck was pulling into the lot beside Greenwood’s, and Frodo recognized the red-haired driver. “I should say I do know…” He smirked a little. “I’ll go and get that for you.”

Frodo took his time strolling into the shop, and deliberated over the right choice for some time. Sam noticed their visitors through the window as he watered the flowers. “That’s funny – why should Legolas bring a wine barrel down to the Garden Center?”

Frodo continued to smile to himself. “Perhaps he’s going to use it as a planter, perhaps he needed to bring it to get an idea on arrangements and measurements.”

“You’re a good hand in business, Frodo, but I’d say I’ve picked up more about wine making than you have – that’s a real barrel right there, stamped with Greenwood’s seal and everything. Those are expensive, particularly if they’d had wine in them. Legolas wouldn’t waste that on a planter, I’m sure, not when there’s so many other options.” His confusion only doubled as he said, “And what would Gimli be doing putting it in Blue Mountain’s truck?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Frodo said lightly, picking up a gallon container of fertilizer and carrying it – slowly – outside. He noticed that by the time he came back out, the Blue Mountain truck was gone. “Here we are, Legolas. This will last you this summer and next, too.”

“Thank you.” Legolas took it, but looked distracted, gazing down the road and just holding the jug of fertilizer in his arms. He woke up enough to ask, “Um, how much?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll charge it to the Greenwood account and send it along with the regular bill. Pleasure doing business, as always.”

“I hope so,” Legolas murmured, but he finally smiled back at Frodo, and returned to the Greenwood truck with his errand completed.


	19. The Harvest Festival

The baking hot summer was cooling off into a gentler, simmering fall, and the tourist season was winding down. It would not be officially done until the end of November, but it was noteworthy that – unlike the regatta – most of the festival attendees were local to the county, not out-of-towners.

It was thought by many to be more fun than the regatta, too. Stalls of fried food, or treats covered in sugar, lined the walkways, and the scents permeated the fairgrounds. Carnival games with cheap, stuffed prizes or live goldfish were in no short supply. And of course there were the rides to please both children and adults: carousels, bumper cars, roller coasters, log rides, and not least of all, the Ferris wheel. Three beautiful nights to say goodbye to summer and grudgingly welcome in the school year; to finish off the harvest and prepare for the next growing season; and to get one last economic bump to last through the winter. This last point was of particular import this year, and the festival committee was hoping to leverage social media to get the word out far and wide. Banners promoted the hashtag “#foundatthefestival” to encourage public engagement, and rumor was that prominent bloggers and “influencers” had been sent free tickets in the hopes that their engagement would draw in more spending.

Legolas was, in an almost literal sense, betting the farm on this angle. This was without his father’s knowledge or approval, but he had the Greenwood booth miscellany out in full force. The table cloths, the vinyl banners, logo merchandise and even bottles for sale – and most critically of all, the plastic tasting cups with an amber-colored liquid, ready for any adult festival goers passing by. Gimli had just finished hauling the last case from the Blue Mountain truck, and he wiped his brow with his forearm and took a long look at Legolas, sitting hunched in his chair with his hands between his knees. “Don’t look so nervous, it’ll drive away customers.”

“If this doesn’t work, I’ve wasted your money, not just Greenwood’s.”

“It’s not a waste, it’s an investment. They don’t all turn out gold, that’s how investments are.” He took a seat in the folding chair beside Legolas, and the other was comforted to see how much calmer and steadier he was in comparison.

Legolas felt himself relaxing, too, and he leaned back in the chair with his arm slung over the rest. “By all rights, these should be Blue Mountain logos, all I did was provide the barrel. We would have sold that and had no expectation to any further profit.”

“Stop trying to argue me out of my decision,” Gimli looked at him askance; they’d spent the last three nights decanting whiskey from the wine barrel and carefully affixing labels to the bottles by hand. “This wasn’t a Blue Mountain project, it was a Gimli project, and he decided to partner with Greenwood on it.”

“I just want to know why, though.”

Gimli sighed a little, running a broad hand through his thick hair. “The pub…that’s my dad’s thing, his retirement dream, as it were. I help out cause I got my degree in business, and it’s a living, but it’s not what I _want_ to do.” He looked at Legolas, and their eyes seemed to connect. “I want to do something different, something new.”

“You know…” His mouth felt very dry, and he licked his lips. “Sometimes I feel the same way. This summer really brought home to me that Greenwood can’t do business the way it always has.”

“This was the perfect opportunity to try things out. And…new ventures are better with a partner, I think.”

Their hands were very close together. Legolas’ fingers stretched out toward Gimli’s, “I-”

“Well, well, what’s this?” It was Mr. Baggins, coming up to the booth and in a great humor. “Samples! Good evening, boys. This is different, isn’t it, Legolas?”

“Good evening, Mr. Baggins. Yes, it is.” He straightened in his chair and was much more the scion of Greenwood, remote and serious, than the nervous Legolas Thranduilion he had been but a moment before.

“Greenwood is going to be opening a sister distillery,” Gimli added, and Legolas looked at him briefly – but he did not contradict him, and nodded, going back to their customer. “We’re getting the word out.” He pointed at the sign affixed to the booth. “Be sure to tweet about us.”

“Tweet? Oh heavens, I leave that up to Frodo.”

“He barely understands emojis, don’t confuse him, Gimli.” Legolas’ eyebrow raised slightly to see who came up behind Mr. Baggins – a dark haired gentleman, though it was threaded thickly with silver, and he couldn’t be certain, but he thought he slid his hand into the other’s back pocket; but then, Legolas didn’t think he was really in a position to judge anyone’s choice of companion at the moment, so he said nothing and kept his smile to himself. “Whiskey, eh? Does Gloin know about this?”

“He doesn’t have to, it’s not his whiskey.”

“Well, I've never said no to a sample in my life,” Bilbo said with a gregarious note to his voice. He took one of the little plastic cups, raised it to his companion and the boys behind the table, and sipped. “That is different, but I can’t quite place it.”

“It’s finished in a Pinot noir barrel,” the maker replied. “Three weeks aged, it’s more subtle, but it adds that dry, fruit layer.”

He took another sip and said, “I’d buy a bottle of that.”

“Sixty dollars.” Bilbo looked at Thorin, who dutifully got out his wallet and began parsing out bills. Legolas could hardly believe it, and almost didn’t breathe, lest it would break the spell and their first customer would change his mind. Gimli bagged up the purchase in a Greenwood-labeled paper sleeve, and handed it off. “You’ll only be able to get these at Greenwood after the festival, mind.”

“Duly noted! I hope it’s a big sale,” Bilbo smiled to the two of them. “I’ll tell Frodo to….tweet it, or whatever, when I see him.” He waved them goodnight, and went on with his companion, and Legolas stared, breathless, at Gimli.

“We did it,” he at last spoke, in barely more than a whisper. “We’ve sold a bottle!”

“That’s six dollars to Greenwood, and the rest to my new distillery.” Despite everything Legolas had said, Gimli had insisted that this was a partnership; Greenwood would get ten percent, as he was using the good name of their label to help promote sales. The rest would go to covering his own costs and building the brand. He picked up a cup and handed one to Legolas, clinking them dully together. “To our new enterprise.”

“Y-yes.” He shouldn’t say it, it was going to ruin everything: “To us.”

But Gimli’s eyes smiled over the glass, and he drained the cup. “Even better.”

* * *

“Aragorn?” Merry was with Sam and the rest of his cousins, and was surprised to see the deputy off duty and enjoying himself at the festival. “What on earth are you doing here? Oughtn’t you be on the campaign trail, stirring up votes?”

But Aragorn was casually dressed for once, relaxed and not quite so serious. “It doesn’t matter now.” Arwen had come up beside him with a stick of cotton candy, and took his arm with her free hand. “It’s almost the end of the election, the votes are coming in. People will have listened, or they won’t. I need a break.”

“You can say that again.” Arwen smiled at him and offered him a taste of her candy off the stick, which Aragorn took; he was so serious, it was rare to see him foolish, and it was a charming sight, if a little disconcerting to his four young friends. “If he does win, I’ll have to be reminding him of that constantly.”

“The perfect job for the Sheriff’s wife,” he smiled, and gave her a quick kiss, sticky with sugar.

“Arwen,” Pippin popped up, “if Aragorn loses, you can marry me instead! I’ll win you a prize at one of those shooting gallery games and everything.”

“I shoot with live ammunition,” Aragorn reminded him, half-playing (but then again, half-not), and mussed his young friend’s hair.

“What sort of a prize?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Arwen!”

“Frodo,” Sam interjected, completely torn out of the conversation and looking down the midway, “isn’t that your uncle with-”

“Ha!” Merry had zeroed in on where Sam was looking and was crowing with laughter. “That’s his ex-husband or I’m the winemaker of Greenwood!”

“Shall we go and tell Legolas that?”

“No, let’s go tease Bilbo first.”

“They don’t need any trouble from you,” Frodo said, stepping in front of the others with his arms outstretched. “I had to listen to Bilbo hem and haw over whether he should go with Thorin for three full days, and if you three upset him, I’ll hear about it for that many more!”

“Bilbo doesn’t need anyone’s help being upset,” Sam nodded toward the couple. “It looks like they’re arguing already.”

Frodo turned with disappointment, and it was true, they were getting loud enough that they could be heard by the other festival participants. “Oh no…”

“-most frustrating, irritating man in the world, _why_ do I still love you so much!”

Thorin was pointing his finger right back at Bilbo. “ _I’m_ frustrating! _You_ are the most contradictory – wait, what?” The hand dropped. “Don’t try to soften me up now, you’re the one who divorced me!”

“You can divorce someone and still love them, you great, stupid-”

“Ugh,” Pippin sighed, nose wrinkled. “They’re kissing.”

“Well, I think that’s quite enough eavesdropping,” Aragorn herded them back down the midway. “If you plan on bothering Legolas, you’d better do it soon – there’s a line forming at his stall with Gimli.”

“His what?” Pippin was yet again shocked. “What is this, opposite day?”

* * *

Faramir felt his phone buzz in his pocket, but when he checked it, it was only another notification. “#foundatthefestival,” and a few well-filtered photos of bottles of whiskey and pretty people posing with them. Nice as it was, he was hoping to find something very different at this festival…

He caught in his sights exactly who he was looking for, too: Éowyn was at one of the carnival games, throwing baseballs at weighted milk bottles. She was a ringer, too, the bottles nearly exploded off the table. The carnival barker didn’t seem too thrilled with her success. It made Faramir smile, and he walked over. “Nice shot.”

Éowyn glanced at him before taking up her next ball. “Thanks.”

“Aragorn in the washroom?”

“Look,” she lowered her arm from the pitch and brushed her golden hair from her face. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I wanted him to want to take me, he didn’t, I’m stupid, it’s done.”

“You’re not stupid,” he frowned, as the game attendant pointed out her possible prizes. “He’s stupid.”

“Ha.” Éowyn selected a balloon in the shape of a flower, and tied the ribbon around her wrist. “You obviously haven’t seen his girlfriend.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I had.” She began to walk down the row of games, and Faramir walked with her. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” She paused, looking at him, her head tilted very slightly. “And anyway, someone like you shouldn’t pine away like that – you’re too good for it.”

Éowyn tucked her hair behind her ear. “I am not too good for anything. I’m stuck here, Éomer’s little sister, Théodred’s cousin – if I try to get out and make something of my life, I’d break my family’s heart, and I don’t have the courage to do it. So I’m really not as great as you think, Faramir.” She looked up into his eyes at last.

“Well,” he stuck his hands into his pockets, heart hammering in his chest, “I guess the solution is to make something of yourself here instead.”

“Yeah, right. Don’t tease me,” she started walking again and he grabbed her arm.

“I’m serious! The grass isn’t greener on the next hill, Éowyn, it’s wherever we water it!” They stood close to one another now, and she seemed to be listening. “There are people here who love you and would support you in anything you do….that’s worth quite a lot, I wish you’d believe me.” They went quiet for a moment, and he said softly, “Why Aragorn, anyway?”

Éowyn shrugged and they began to walk again, but more slowly now. “He’s educated, he’s been all over the world…” Faramr noted with great relief she said nothing about his looks or personality. “He’s going to be Sheriff…Feels like a step up to something bigger.”

“If you were with him, wouldn’t you still just be under a shadow?” She stopped, stunned, and looked at him. “You wouldn’t be just Éomer’s little sister, you’d also be Aragorn’s girlfriend. That’s a title from someone else, it’s still not about you.”

“I…” She almost couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“What do you like to do?” He was smiling at her, and he seemed more relaxed and casual now. “If you can’t compete with horses, do you think you could find some other work satisfying?”

“Like what?” Éowyn remained unconvinced. “Taking spoiled tourists around, giving lessons to snot nose kids?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “There’s got to be something else, something that matters. That’s why I wanted to do Legal Aid, it’s not glorious, but it makes a difference, every day, to somebody.”

“Yeah.” It was as if a mantle of ice was melting around her. “I…want to make a difference to somebody, too.”

“If that’s the case, it doesn’t really matter where you are, does it?”

After a moment, she smiled at him. “So what you’re saying is I need to date someone _really_ pathetic, so they don’t overshadow me?”

“You can ask my dad, I’m _super_ pathetic.” She began to laugh, and he became serious for a moment. “Éowyn – if you got everything you ever wanted: if you were the rodeo queen, and Aragorn was marrying you tomorrow….I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. And I’d never get over it, not for a minute.”

She gazed into his eyes, lips slightly parted. “What happened to the grass being greener where you water it? You wouldn’t find some other girl who’s good enough?”

“I guess I’m a hypocrite – no, I wouldn’t.”

After a long moment, she reached out her hand, calloused from the reins, and slipped it into his, and their fingers entwined. “Wanna go to the harvest festival with me, Faramir? I’ll win you a prize.”

He smiled, and they drew closer, beginning to walk with shoulders brushing against one another. “I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

Sold out! Legolas thought they should stay at the booth to keep drumming up business, passing out cards, reminding people the whiskey could only be found at Greenwood. Gimli told him he needed to take off the mantle of wine country scion for a night, and live a little. Anything that would be missed if it were taken they schlepped out to the truck, which they then drove back down the street to the Public House. The two debated then if they should call it a night and rest up after a long week, or walk back down to the festival to take in the sights as participants, rather than vendors. This won out, and they walked the several blocks back down to the parade grounds, laughing and talking together. They’d talked during their nights bottling and labeling whiskey, of course, but this was less fraught, more easy and intimate. Legolas spoke about his mother, and what it was like growing up as a son of Greenwood; Gimli shared about his father and all his friends, and how hard Gloin had worked for his family, and to have the money to act on a dream like Blue Mountain. They had walked and talked so much, that by the time they were back into the festival, they badly needed a rest.

“Food first?” Gimli asked him. “We’ll get you a rotten, cheap beer and an elephant ear.”

“That sounds awful!”

“It is, but it will match you and those long ears of yours.”

“They are not long!” he laughed and shoved the other by the shoulder. “How about the Ferris wheel, I want to sit.”

“Yeah, alright,” Gimli agreed, regaining his feet. The line wasn’t terrible, and they soon found themselves locked into a small car, swaying gently back and forth. The metal seat was warm and they had to squeeze close together on the small bench, hands touching on the safety bars. With a sudden lift, up they went, cresting to the top of the wheel, so the whole valley spread before them: the lights of the festival, of the businesses downtown; and there were the miles of green vines, too, turning golden in the autumn. One could almost smell them this high up. Stars were coming out above their heads. “It’s beautiful,” Gimli whispered in a hush.

The reverie was interrupted by a sharp bang, and a spray of colored light. “Those are Gandalf’s fireworks!” Legolas smiled, lips parted with delight. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“It’s funny the wheel hasn’t gone down yet….” Gimli dared to peek over the side, and then quickly looked forward again. “I’m starting to get the feeling we might be stuck.”

“They do that sometimes,” his companion smirked at him. “If you put in a good word – for couples to get alone.”

“Well, I guess that’s what we are.”

“A couple?” He was startled.

“I meant alone. Well, a couple of somethings, for sure, I don’t know exactly what. Fools, maybe.”

“Friends?”

“That, too.”

“….a couple of somethings.”

Gimli’s pinky tapped Legolas’ thumb. “Yeah.”

Legolas leaned over, before he could think better of it, and placed a kiss on the only bare spot of Gimli’s cheek. The other smiled. Their hands entwined. The wheel went round again while the fireworks continued to pop all around them, and when the wheel stopped again, Legolas leaned in for another kiss. Gimli turned, though, and their mouths connected, and it was very soft – apart from the scratch of his beard against Legolas' face. Yet it made him smile against the other's mouth, and the kissed again, and longer, and better, and only parted when the wheel went round again. And each time they made it back to the top, there was another kiss.


	20. The End of the Season

“I want to thank our former Sheriff – for his years of dedicated service, for his commitment to the people of this county, and for his steadfast determination to protect what we find most valuable. Though our paths may be different, our goals were the same: the prosperity and security of our community.” Aragorn was as gracious in victory as he might have been in defeat. But the election was won, and it had not been that close of a contest. It seemed his message of community support and compassion had reached some willing listeners. “I want to thank the voters for giving me their trust, and I want to give you all my sacred promise, that it is a trust I shall never betray.

“I want to thank, also, my fiancée,” he nodded to Arwen, who sat in the crowd with her parents, beaming with pride, “for believing in me and supporting me and being willing to take this difficult road with me.” There was a smattering of polite applause. “The woman I know will help me to keep all of the ideals I hold.

“And now, what else is there to say, or to do, but to begin?” He nodded and stepped away from the podium, and the crowd applauded again. There were other victors giving small speeches – fire district appointees, county assessors, commissioners – but Aragorn had moved off to the side of the hall to cool his nerves and grab some water; speeches weren’t what he’d gotten into all this for, and they weren’t his strong suit. He felt a gentle clap on his arm and turned to find Boromir, in uniform, no doubt stopping by only for a moment before continuing with his patrol. Aragorn smiled. “Did you get to see me sweat?”

“A little,” his friend smiled at him. “You’ll have to get better if you plan to keep the office long.”

His mouth took a more serious set now. “How is your father?”

Boromir sighed. “What’s there to say? He’s taking some time off for a while. Faramir and I are going to ask him to see a doctor, he’s really not well. It could be losing the election is the best thing for him.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way.”

A grimace. “No.”

“Arwen’s parents are throwing a small party, something like ‘congratulations and on with the wedding.’ Will you be there?”

Boromir relaxed again, smiling. “Of course I will.”

“Bring Faramir, too, if you like.”

“Well, if I bring Faramir,” he laughed a little. “He has his own plus one now.”

“Well! More congratulations. Bring her, too, if she wants to come.”

“It’s Éowyn Eorling – she had quite the crush on you, you know.”

It was amusing to watch Aragorn’s ears turn red. “What? You’re kidding.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Of course not, why would I know?”

“It was only obvious to everyone else in the county.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“I’ll see if they want to come,” he cuffed the other lightly on the shoulder. “Let her prove she’s over you and moved on to better guys.”

“The best,” Aragorn agreed with a nod, which was just like him, and made Boromir roll his eyes.

“I’ll see you later….boss.”

“You keep that up, I’ll put you on desk duty.” But Boromir laughed and went back to his cruiser. Life was better than he’d hoped it would be.

* * *

“-and that finishes up the scheduling.”

“Well done, Sam,” Frodo approved the week’s staffing schedule, signing his name at the bottom. “I do want to make something clear between us, though.” Sam paled next to him. “You’re the manager at Bagend – that means you’re in charge on the floor. If I’m working the register, I’ll do whatever you say. If you need help, just put me where I’m needed.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Frodo!” he protested mightily.

“I told you, I don’t want you calling me ‘mister,’ anything.”

“But you’re my boss! It’s just not right!”

“And if I’m here in the office I can _be_ your boss, but it’s all hands on deck around here, and we can’t have employees circumventing you by talking to me. It’ll undermine your authority.”

“My authority…” He blushed at the very thought.

“Stand up for yourself, Sam Gamgee! You’re worth it!”

“Hello, hello!” Bilbo took this moment to stroll through the back office, greeting the boys warmly. “Just came by for the last of the brick-a-brack. Brought a mule to help, too,” and he tilted his chin toward Thorin, who nodded politely at the other two. “All that muscle has to be good for something, hm?”

“I’ll say.” He leaned on Sam’s chair and said, “When we moved in together out of college, I moved the sofa all by myself. I’d say my muscle’s been good for quite a lot of things.”

“It was the armchair,” Bilbo replied, putting his final mementos into a box. “Balin helped with the couch, what a silly thing, who would move a couch by themselves?”

“It was the couch,” Thorin insisted, straightening up again. “I think I remember what I moved, Balin wasn’t by until after we-”

“And I think your memory is as foggy as ever, you moved two armchairs, and then Balin had to help you with the couch, because by that point you’d pulled your back insisting on doing everything yourself.”

“I did not-”

“You had to take a long, hot bath and whine for me to give you a massage-”

“Why is it so difficult for you to admit when you’re wrong? I moved the cou-”

“ _I’m_ wrong?”

Frodo rested his chin against his fist and gave Sam a knowing look. “So in any case, you’re the manager in charge. Shall we go over utilities and then off to the pub?”

* * *

Théoden had come out to the stable to help put away the horses from today's last tour, and he was happy to notice the quietness now had a slightly different quality than it had for the last year. The sounds of horses nickering, or eating, or banging against their stalls was often the only music as Éomer and Éowyn curried down the animals, but this afternoon, it didn't have the same sad, melancholic note to it. It gave the old man a pleasant feeling of warmth in his chest. “Éomer,” he said, picking up a curry comb and working down the last horse. “Your sister has been smiling a lot more lately.”

“She has,” he agreed, grinning at his sister as he put away the last saddle. Éowyn ignored them both, head held high. “But she's being very close about why.”

“That boy we talked about – he saw the error of his ways?”

“It's not that,” she replied, shaking her head, blonde ponytail swinging. “It's about me.”

“What about you?” Théoden pulled the hair from the comb and dropped it in the refuse pile to be swept up with the rest of the dirt and straw and what-have-you.

“I've been thinking.” She was quite for a moment, putting the saddle on its proper stand, but she finally had the courage to turn and face them. “About going back to school – maybe studying to be a vet.” Her brother and her uncle were staring at her. Éowyn furrowed her brow. “I just wanted to help in some way – is it alright?”

“Alright!” Éomer enveloped her in a bear hug before she could say no. “God, I'm so happy, I...”

“Are you crying?” she tried to shove him off, but he held her fast.

“We were so worried about you.”

Éowyn huffed. “I'm fine!” Her brother still hadn't let go, so it was as good a time as any to add, “Though incidentally, I....am sort of seeing someone.”

* * *

“No- no, there aren't any more whiskey bottles left!” Thraduil wanted to slam down the phone, but he was too sensible for it. “Well if you join our mailing list- yes, that's 'Greenwood,' singular, dot-com. Uh huh, you'll be given the first opportunity to buy. Thank you.” His son was refilling shelves with bottles of wine, and smiling, deviously. “Don't try to tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

“Alright, I won't,” he turned, resting his hands behind him against the shelves. Thranduil had to admit, he had rarely seen his child so happy. “Three hundred dollars in almost pure profit to Greenwood in just a few hours, ada! And if we had had more bottles, it would have been much higher!”

“Legolas, we're not a distillery.”

“The demand is there, ada. And you know, for such a high demand, Gimli will need a company with access to large facilities, one that can provide lots of wine barrels to age in. A company with a big name and a lot of power behind it.”

Thranduil crossed his arms and sighed, raising an eyebrow at his boy. “Is that the young man's name?”

He colored very slightly. “The point is, I can't think of anyone in the valley as big and powerful as Greenwood.”

“Greenwood,” he reminded him pointedly, “is being sold.”

“But does it have to be?” Like a track athlete, he vaulted easily over the tasting room bar with his long legs, stopping before his father at the front desk. “I asked you to wait until the harvest festival. We have a real chance here, I believe it with all my heart. Please, ada – please.”

Thranduil and Legolas looked at one another for a long time, like mirrors to the other – and finally the father sighed. “Go call this boy of yours....apparently there are matters to discuss.”

Legolas almost jumped into the air. “And if we're making lots of money, we could hire Tauriel back!”

“Don't push me. What's his number?”

* * *

The end of the season wasn't the end of work. The tourists didn't come in such high numbers, but some did come out for holiday weekends and fall and winter festivals. And when they did, there were still restaurants to eat at, and tours to take, and cool weather flowers to decorate the shops they visited.

And there were, as there always had been, fireworks at Yuletide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all those who read and commented, and enjoyed this journey with me. <3 Go enjoy a nice glass of wine - or beer, if that's more your thing.


End file.
